Passing 37

The number 37 is a doubledecker bus,

It goes from Clapham Junction all the time.
Just a doubledecker bus. So why make such a fuss?
Life rains lemons? Sod the lemons, I want lime!

Because the number 37 is an age, not just bus,
But energetic is a feeling, and I’m like wine;
Fruit and spritely, full of youth, I’m no gust of rusty puss.
Bring it on! I’m 37! Go bells, chime!

Yes, it was my birthday recently and another year crept quietly into my life and settled into the sofa, watched a bit of telly and, to an external observer, would have given the impression that it had a right to be there. To said external observer, I say this. No, it has no place in my life. I would put it in storage if I thought it had further use, but I do not, so I am selling it on eBay.

I was tempted to lock it in the cellar, along with all the other years that have tried to set up home in me since I was fourteen. And don’t start on all that “cruelty to age thing”, I’d stick pins in the years if I could. They are simply parasites who steal hair and spread weird and exotic ailments I never had before. Back in my day, everyone I knew was young. Now look at them, they’re all saddled with years that look totally foreign on them. Deport the years, that’s what I say! Give them to the French!


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