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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The catkins are hanging off the willows and lolling on the walls of the houses on the Mall, thick as butcher’s fingers and yellow as nicotine. Spring is here. I’m pondering nothing very much as I potter along the river towards a piss-up with pals in a pub in Putney when the sun and theContinue reading “I drink therefore I am. Or why life is a load of old bowls.”
My wife looks up and sniggers. The children turn around, exchange a shrug of their eyebrows and swivel back to their cereal bowls. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask myself. Is the cat behind me moon walking on the hob or playing table football with the butter dish? He’s always trying to upstage me with hisContinue reading “Should men wear Alice bands?”
Our car is as ancient as a Viking long ship and as glamourous as a discount warehouse baked bean can. Something inside the old jalopy smells bad, like pickled face flannel, but it’s not so bad that you want to puke and with the windows open it’s bearable over short distances. However, today, I’m drivingContinue reading “The car smells of Boomer despair”
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