My hip started giving me gyp last night… and is worse today. Part of the fun of ageing with a chronic disease is the sight of me hobbling about with sticks, or swaying like a drunken sailor trying to traverse a room without a headlong stagger into a piece of furniture. As I’ve often said the curvature of my back was inflicted by fate, but the curvature of my front is mostly self-inflicted. I don’t call myself Fatbirder ironically. So I’ve been feeling nostalgic, not for a particular time, person or place, but for my youthful body. My thirties were the peak so here are a couple of images from the nineteen eighties…
Paris 1980 – when I could tuck my shirt in my jeans without developing a muffin top… now it would be more a whole tiered wedding cake. I’m also nostalgic for the view… not of Paris, merely of looking down from 5 feet 11 & ¾ inches, instead of 5 feet six as I became the incredible shrinking man!
Tunisia 1982 – I should have worn a medallion with that chest hair! It was a time when I could fly economy and feel quite comfortable bar the lack of leg room. In those far off days I didn’t even know there were seat belt extensions.
