The days grow shorter

The days grow shorter. Our lives grow shorter too. Our tempers and patience shrink accordingly. Our vigour then has less space and must reduce in size to fit. We enter the autumn of our age. But its not all bad, there is cretin pleasure to be found in this pensive languor. The limbs are soft and rest like sweaty butter, no longer resisting the endless wash of days. So is it a sin to grow old? To sit by the window and slowly, very slowly, eat your scone? Heavy sighing and heavy lids that resist no longer. Is it a sin to shuffle off this mortal coil without a fuss. Do we welcome then the dying light?

Or do we slap away such thoughts with open palmed disdain? Do we thrash and rail against that final sigh? Even though it hurts to heave our heavy limbs and bump our buttery bums to that terrible tango that does not forgive us our mistakes.

Perhaps we can try our hand at both. Monday to Thursday we can set aside for dying and sitting comfortably by the window. The rest of the week can be for life and for suffering on the dance floor.And we can hop like this from one foot to the other all the way to the grave, a crumpet in one hand, a fistful of coke in the other, crooning old man river to trip hop beat and so embrace the duality we are born to.