Thursday, 25 April 2013
Crisis, what crisis?
It seems that one day they wake up, take a good hard look at their life and think "Holy cow, I've turned into a boring, unadventurous, soulless couch potato and if I don't do something drastic, the next thirty years will be just more of the same. I need to reinvent myself before it's too late."
And the next thing you know, the guy's shed all his inhibitions and gone totally wild. He's got a mistress twenty years younger, he's bought a motorbike (or a sports car), he's going to all-night parties, he's dyed his hair pink, he worships Rihanna and he's writing a book about serial killers.
Or so they say. I'm embarrassed to admit that the whole syndrome passed me by while my attention was elsewhere. While I was fuming at Mrs Thatcher. Or selling academic textbooks. Or going on ban-the-bomb marches. Or having orgasms. I had no idea I was meant to be in a desperate existential crisis, seeing the ruins of my pathetic life laid out around me like a heap of rubble.
I confess I had no craving for a nubile young nymphette, or a souped-up convertible, or a purple Afro. I was quite happy as I was, doing my familiar thing.
I say I'm embarrassed to admit it because a part of me quite likes the idea of suddenly breaking loose, throwing all caution and entrenched habits to the wind, and doing something spectacularly, jaw-droppingly unexpected. Something that sends a giant shock wave through my neat and tidy existence.
Not today though. I'm not quite ready for it. There's Emily Watson on TV and I'm well into this cracker of a novel. Tell you what, I'll just pencil it in for tomorrow.