As I've said before, like many oldies, I don't really feel I've grown up yet. I feel as if I'm still a fumbling adolescent, forever groping my way through the complexities of life waiting for the sure-footedness of maturity to alight on me.
Well, I'm still waiting. Whoever's meant to be handing out the sure-footedness seems to have forgotten me. So I just have to carry on fumbling behind a pretence of worldly wisdom and carefree poise.
Someday, about forty years later than expected, I shall finally say goodbye to all those immature habits that secretly embarrass and bemuse me and become adorable and sophisticated.
All of a sudden I'll be much more generous, articulate, patient, understanding, adventurous and good at cooking. Just like that I'll know exactly what to do if someone drops dead or the person sitting next to me at the dinner party is a neo-fascist or there's a stray cow in the back garden. Nothing will phase me, nothing will send me running for cover, nothing will leave me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I'll just stride in and take control.
And pigs will fly.
When I was young, I always assumed grown-ups were mature and responsible and infinitely knowledgeable. It never occurred to me that they might be fumbling along unsteadily the same as myself, trying desperately to make sense of everything.
Today's young people are not so innocent. They can see quite clearly that adults are often stumbling around like drunks in a pub, knocking things over and talking nonsense.
They take whatever adults say with a healthy dose of suspicion and are more likely to work out for themselves what life's all about. Which can only be a turn for the better.
Grown-ups don't know everything, and never did.
