04 Apr / Old
I don’t feel very different than I did a decade ago.
Sure, my bones ache a bit more. Some of my joints have the broken glass addition of arthritis to them. My ankles have started to swell in warm weather.
I’ve also developed a special type of grunt for sitting down, and a much longer one for standing up again.
But I still didn’t think I was that much different to the younger generation of people that I’m surrounded with at work.
Until a discussion about a visiting rock star began.
To be more exact, began with the word ‘Who?’
Now, I accept that every generation has its own music, but there are still some names that should echo across the divide.
When someone mentions the Beatles and the Stones I don’t shake my head in confusion.
And likewise I expect everybody to know who Billy Idol is.
How dare this young generation of people grow up without listening to White Wedding or Rebel Yell? How did they survive their teen years without Dancing with Myself? What other version of Mony Mony could they possibly prefer?
I could almost accept that someone may haved missed out on the musical genius that created Hot in the City, but then I discovered somebody in our office who didn’t know who Baldrick was.
I’ve obviously fallen through some strange time-warp and ended up in the wrong dimension. Or, grown old.