I played tennis with my youngest nephew again today. He beat me 6-1, 6-1 which was embarrassing. But I had a bit of food poisoning (definitely nothing to do with having drunk too much) which totally explains my poor play. One day I will defeat him. For the moment I had to content myself with hitting him quite hard with my tennis racquet. A bit harder than I meant to actually. But he was being a cocky little twit and so he deserved it. It wasn't because I felt humiliated by the defeat. It was all his fault.
Not content with almost murdering my mother, my temper caused me to practically paralyse my nephew. Will I never learn?
Will my plans to harm my family never come to fruition.
Tonight I went out for a beer with my oldest nephew. I've been promising to take him out for a beer since he was about four. He's almost twenty now and this is the first time I've managed to make good on that promise. We tried to go out on Christmas Day night last year, but all the pubs in Cheddar were closed.
In a year when I've been forced to consider the devastating passage of time, tonight's mini pub crawl really brought home how old I am. I first saw my nephew when he was two hours old. I remember him gripping on to my little finger with his tiny hand. If I had made him drink three pints of bitter then, then society would have frowned upon my actions. Yet now, only two decades later, exactly the same scenario can occur an no-one bats an eye-lid. Society, you are an hypocrite.
Although it is marvellous to see that he has grown into such a fine young man, it was also quite shocking to realise how much older I must be. And to revisit the pubs I used to drink in when I was his age merely accentuated that sense of unease.
When did I grow old?!!!
I wished I brought my tennis racquet with me so I could hit my second nephew of the day. Though I'd have to make sure I killed him with the first blow, because he'd batter me senseless if he got a chance to retaliate. The hand which was once so tiny that it could only squeeze my finger is now big enough to squash my (not insubstantial) head. With ease.
He's in his first year at University now and though there's a part of me that envies him, I don't think I would go back even if I could.
Being 36 isn't so bad, despite my griping. But when I'm taking his son out for a pint (probably some kind of space-pint which I assume will be green or blue) then maybe I will have to worry.
Though I'll be married to Sophie Ellis Bextor's daughter by then and I'm sure she'll have snapped me into line and made me grow up a bit.
