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‘Age is not something to accept in a fatalistic despond; no, ‘tis something to inspect from all angles, to admire and to be curious about. Do not limp woefully, vanity bawling and baulking into that varicose night, go furious with incredulous joy at your very survival. Mindful of both cruel and kind contortions mid-flight, go foolish, shunning the moribund with fervour; go shamelessly not aimlessly, loving as you did aged sixteen blamelessly, wild as wet bees dancing, filthy, funny, charming and chancing, eleemosynary and beloved by receivers all, resentment to be banished from this boisterous climactic ball and all whilst of the very finest fettle (arthritis aside, elbowing feeble knees — none to say undid by crip hip were he, she, one and ye), still to be putting on the kettle, wisely brewed and bedecked with pride, spinning all that’s dark into glorious gold. Therefore, do not rage, rage, against the dyeing of grey hair. No. Get your Croydon facelift on, take heed this tropospheric speak; do not bemoan one’s being “old”, endless elation and amity do seek!’

— The Cloud

 

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