A Whole New Me

Revered Son has lost the 'f' at the end of his name and has added a year to his age.

Its taken a couple of days, but he is already back to normal form, with his wraparound shades, baseball cap on back to front, and a trail of children wandering along behind him like the Pied Piper, only this time they are aged 16-18, and some of them are over 6' tall. I woke him up for waterskiing this morning and commented "Revered Son, you appear to have a large smear of mascara on your cheek."  He grinned proudly.  At lunchtime he was sitting next to a slim blonde young goddess draped in diaphanous pink chiffon.  His friends reassure me that he is what I would refer to as a lothario, not what they would refer to as a man-slag.

Meanwhile my new identity is pariah.  I am struggling with this as I am used to being centre of attention.

I am so interesting that a screenplay has been written about part of my life, and that's just some of it!  

Yet this week I find myself walking around grinning inanely to all, and making pleasant small talk to every tom, dick and pillock, but they're all doctors and surgeons.  Someone mentions the word NHS, if it is a word, at which point (Clarkson rant) they turn their backs on me in unison and have a competition as to who can squawk the loudest about how they're now working 210 times as hard as what they signed up to do, their pay has been cut by 7,000% and their pensions have turned into 21/2p a year.  As they buy another bottle of turkish chardonnay for three million turkish lire, and disappear off for an opi gel manipedicure, a 'Brush With Heaven' and back wax.

As I help myself to what's left of their wine.