I may be middle aged, but appear to have come full circle and am basically a toddler again, albeit a giant one, with leathery skin, and no longer sporting a nappy (mind you…).
Please tell me I’m not alone.
It wasn’t deemed cool to eat them in my teen years (unless, of course, Morrissey was spotted hanging outside Woolworths, popping a few milk teeth into his gob, then there really would’ve been panic on the streets to get to the nearest pic n’ mix) and I might have occasionally indulged in a Curly Wurly at the cinema in my twenties to nurse a hangover, but mostly there were far better things to be sampling in my youth.
But now I can’t get enough of them. The nastier, more processed, sugary, jelly-like sweets the better. And I won’t stop at one. Oh no, eat the whole lot, whatever I can get my hands on, even though the grown ups have said no. Only difference is the middle aged shame.
I want a warm, calm, nice-smelling person to put me on their lap and give me a cuddle when I’m having a Mrs S.H.I.T. wobble. To whisper ‘ssshhh’ in my ear when the world seems to be spinning out of control because the washing basket is overflowing and I’ve run out of Daz. To stroke my hair and tell me everything will be OK when I’ve yet again stabbed the bottom of my foot on a piece of lego, my eyes prickling with tears, and bad words are uncontrollably flying out of my mouth. A bottle full of warm coffee, tea, or possibly gin and tonic, shoved in my mouth, and a plate of cookies would be nice too.
Na na na-na na
I still stick my tongue out and blow big fat raspberries at annoying people (only difference is it’s in my head now) and want to run away. Sometimes I do (run away that is, or flounce in a sort of mumsy way) and then, of course, feel like a top div.
I can’t realistically do this one as my bum won’t wedge into the seat comfortably, but how I’d love to be pushed around in a giant buggy. Just sitting there like little old lady muck, thrown snacks or a drink when I stick my hand out. I could even grab a cheeky forty winks if the mood takes me, which it most certainly would.
Talking of forty winks
How I long for a lunch time nap everyday. Somebody lovely (that same warm, calm, nice-smelling one) telling me every day after lunch (that they’ve not only made for me, but also cleared up) that I must snuggle down into my cosy bed cuddling my favourite soft toy, and I should really try to sleep for two hours. Oh OK then, I’ll see what I can do.
The foot stamping. The screechy voice. The wailing. WHO’S taken my car keys, my house keys, any keys? Oh I see, they’re there in the fridge.
Well, WHO’S helped themselves to my secret stash of After Eights? Or did I absentmindedly eat them all last night as I was contemplating whether lovely Ross Kemp shouldn’t just get himself back into the cosy bosom of Albert Square, instead of putting himself in danger and being all hard in ‘Ross Kemp Behind Bars’.
OK then, WHERE is my best lipstick that I save for special ‘going out’ nights? I shall hammer my fists on the floor if somebody has been playing Zoella YouTube make up tutorials with it again. Oh why, there it is still in my pocket-sized, ‘going out’ handbag from my last night out in December 2016.
And finally a grobag
I just want a grobag. That’s it.
I could do the zip up myself and I promise I won’t wriggle out of it. Christmas present anyone?