A sure sign that you have become middle-aged is that you can write about any topic under the sun and not give a stuff what anyone thinks.
In my youth, I would never have dared tell anyone that I was raised amongst practising Christians, or that we were middle class, or that we had a strict upbringing, or even that I’m a Muslim. But now that I’m past forty-five, all of a sudden I’m past caring what other people think of me.
Some home truths: the past few years, I have taken to listening to modern folk music. Passenger, Blanco White and Luke Sital-Singh are my favourites. I’m also partial to the old romantic Turkish songs of Fikret Kizilok and Mazhar Alanson. I don’t do cool. The kids call them my misery songs. I don’t care. I like my misery songs.
I loaf around the house in slippers. I feel naked without a jumper. I dress like my dad did in the 1990s, when I wouldn’t be seen dead in his hand-me-downs. In the evening, I watch YouTube videos of some bloke from Texas mowing yards and a bloke from Thailand welding amazing contraptions while wearing flip-flops.
My idea of fun is aimlessly wandering around with a friend in the great outdoors. I don’t mind confessing that I enjoy a spot of gardening at the weekend. I don’t mind admitting that the family car is a sensible compact crossover, and not a sleek high-performance saloon.
Above all, I don’t at all care that people find out that I am still an extremely boring person. Indeed, I have embraced my awfully terribly boring persona. It’s okay. Perfectly fine. Completely bodacious. Right on. I’m officially middle-aged and so totally past caring. Grumpy old gits unite.
Last modified: 6 May 2022
