Out on a school night , trusting the teenagers at home alone they will survive without my parental guiding hand. I feel secure in the knowledge of there is a packet of popcorn available and low calorie drinks to be had.
We are at a Jazz concert where the good, the old and the mighty of this town gather to show they are still cutting it, despite the onset of podginess abounding.
It is time to watch my fellow citizens dressed to their nines, whereas perhaps size 10 or 12 would have been a better fit.
And there is a choice, a ready plethora of mutton dressed as lamb, and by degrees, there is mutton dressed as lamb from a forgotten age.
She looked ok from the rear in a kind of a 50's debutante might look with a dodgy knee and crocked hip and gammy leg. Then she rolled on her heels and revealed that ageing was not kind above the neck line either, the beehive stood there adding feet to a stature that badly needed height that high heels could probably not provide any more, due to a replacement hip or something.
It as if a new paradigm, it was as if a beehive dressed as honey. I had passed judgement, condemned without forethought, even giggled, as easily as it was to catch myself in a mirror. Yes a mirror.
And perhaps I thought there was a little old lady looking at a man who was wearing trousers that were not designed to be seated in anymore, shirts of an older vintage, shoes that had the feeling that they were last seen in a black and white photograph.
Perhaps this is the real reason that the teenagers prefer not to walk with their own version of the living dead, if not attached to a credit card. I am afraid to ask. Because by damn, my heart knows, I am age appropriate with edge.
Pass me the sarong.