Sixteen Again

This morning, when I woke up, I was sixteen again. I grabbed a slice of toast and my helmet, waved to my Mum, then off to school on my wonderful first motorbike. I’m in the sixth form now. When I got there I was eighteen and the final end of year service had just started. I must rush to get the train to Oxford. Wow, look at all those lights, man; Sergeant Pepper, the Floyd, can it get any better than this? Hey, off to London; my first child is about to be born. I must get a job, maybe I can teach. Computers are really cool; computers and punk rock, what a wonderful world this is. Teaching is boring; I want to build things. I know, I will be a systems architect, how cool is that? No, I don’t want to fly the Atlantic again; I don’t want to go to another boring meeting. Maybe I can be a freelance and live somewhere really cool, an island maybe, the Hebrides. Too much travel still, perhaps somewhere where I can work close by, not a city but a town not too far out. Maybe I don’t need to work quite so much; I can do other things, politics maybe. No, the problem with politics is that you have to deal with politicians; perhaps I can just sit and write about things, that Shostakovich is really cool. I am getting tired now; I seem to ache all over all the time. Perhaps tomorrow I will feel young again.

Oh shit, I am 72 again. Never mind, I will put on some Buzzcocks.