What it feels like to be an old man trapped in a young girls body…

No matter how hard I try to fight it there are some undeniable truths following me around with more persistence than the creepy little midget in Labyrinth. For a while now, I have felt with quite some conviction that my young, suppleĀ feminine form is being squatted by a cantankerous old codger named Arthur who has an unwavering dedication to making my life difficult.

Please see below a list of my evidence…

1. Je fume trop. Whether it’s the generation that finds it unseemly for females to smoke, the one that would prefer you spark up a big fat doobie, or the one that knows tobacco will pickle their chances of ever winning X Factor – I’ve become increasingly aware that nobody smokes anymore. Instead of giving up, I seem hellbent on converting the naysayers and puffing smoke in peoples faces, all the while wheezing like an asthmatic dancing next to the smoke machine at a school disco.

2. I move slowly, real slowly. You won’t find me flitting down Oxford street with the other nimble young fillies to push and shove my way to the last J.W Anderson sweater at Topshop, no siree. I’m shuffling, shuffling, everyday I’m shuffling. But it’s ok, I make allowances for this by avoiding rush hour and leaving the house three hours earlier than necessary. And this works out quite well because…

3. I rise early. I’m up, sometimes before the pubs shut, not to greet the day with an enthusiastic high five but because I have to pee. Arthur like most men of a certain age has an inconceivably small bladder and it’s fucking with my sleep patterns. Don’t worry I’m still sitting down (for now).

4. I have developed an unhealthy obsession with Katy Perry. Her with the alabaster skin and a body more curvy than a Cornish ring road. I think Arthur likes her because she harks back to the starlets of the good old days, a wanton bisexual harlot with crazy in her eyes, much like the late Joan Crawford. Plus she dresses like a Christmas tree and Arthur loves Christmas, it warms his tiny cholesterol riddled heart.

I don’t have much experience of exorcisms and with the pressures of modern life how does one find the time? If anyone has knowledge of a suitable priest do get in touch, you’ll find me, I’ll be the only one under 75 in the queue for William Hill on a Wednesday morning. If not, no worries, I’m actually becoming quite fond of the old bastard.

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