Thursday, 10 January 2013

Restricted Comfort Zones

In a world of middling age, my world. A world in that I am more comfortable with "I paid" rather than I-pad, I-pod; and no doubt probably to be followed by I-ped, I-pid and I-pud, if the law of diminishing vowels is anything to do with it.

I still feel young, vibrant, dynamic, as cutting edge as one can get this side of a Sunday Roast knife, but like that roasting knife, the cutting edge is let down by a handle that knows it takes two to tango and it ain't dancing to any sharp jig no more.

I face the mirror where reality dawns, if I turn on the light. Hair loss cannot be hidden  by ruffling and curling to increase surface coverage, any more. Jowls cannot be explained away as a hiding place for a pickle or two, on the point of causing indigestion. Chins are not even looking better in bad lighting. I am facing the face of an older man.

Whilst the youngsters are there, not seeing that this one day, is their destiny. They swagger at times, they shuffle at others, they jump and they slump, they are young. Slouching to a couch, bouncing to a disco.

But thankfully they have homework which I do not, hooray for mathematics, howah for history.  I can take my coffee, in quiet time, my time. I can take my biscuits or two, I have jowls and chins to feed, I can sit in front of the telly and lounge. I am adult not in need of learning no more.

But as if my world in the comfort zone is also not mine, they know, they know I am ripe to be prodded into dynamism. The teenagers own me 24 hours apparently. There is a demand, there is a sigh of teenage helplessness. I am called to assist. I am called to move creaking bones and be brainy, to roll back the algebra years, to re-visit the algorithms, to recognise symbols that may be of Greek origin and are designed to cause me a crisis. I am questioned on kings as if I know history like the back of my hand, "What king did..?" is being roughly stuttered in the older cerebral mind as "What 'kin king did what ...?", and I call this adult thinking. I am called upon to advise on political discourse but my covering up skills are one up on a Pledge to be brainy and one down on the Pleb that I am.

I-pad or not, there is a coffee that may not have my name on it, but it damn well should have my lips on it. So first my lips need to be patient for there are but a few words to say, so I say 'I do not think, therefore I am pointing to Wiki, Go! Wiki!'. Wiki knows all. Back to the Comfort Zone.

1 comment:

  1. Our son has now cottoned on to the fact that our answers to his questions cannot be relied on to be factually accurate any more. He knows when we are flannelling. He still asks but he double-checks with Mr Wiki.

    (How funny the captcha word verification was iPlaya!)