This is the diary of a bemused Boomer. He is post crash, post covid, post libido and, in many ways, past caring now that his life has become little more than the stale meat in an inter-generation sandwich. Trapped on the tightrope between the demands of his family and his urge to have more ‘me time’, this is what it’s really like in Boomersville. Ecce homo, ecce Boomer, ecce Man in the Middle.
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July 19. Freedom Day. Mid-morning. I’m staring at our bedroom ceiling tracing the cracks in the plaster growing out from the overhead light like the emaciated arms of an octopus. I’ve been doing this for more than an hour, weighing up what to do with Freedom Day, Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s wonderful gift to theContinue reading “Ask not for whom the App pings, it pings for you”
Father’s Day was a flop again this year. It took seven hours to drive down the creepy crawly Great British motorway to celebrate the day with my children who have been play acting at Californian beach bums in North Devon for the last week. Seven gear grinding hours at a cruising speed so imperceptible weContinue reading “Father’s Day was a flop again”
Slowly, Mother is folding tissue paper around a book which is lying on a small table between us, cover face down. She’s wrapping a present for my son’s birthday. She’s intensely lost in the task like a code breaker and hasn’t spoken to me for over ten minutes, which is five minutes longer than herContinue reading “Wrapping a present for my son’s birthday”
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