OLDER STILL
I suppose I ought to change the name of this blog. I am now, after all, 31-years old, and no visibly the worse for that. But as the thoughts that have been zipping back and forth across my synapses began their uncertain journey a week ago, I'll outline them on this page all the same.

Not that there is that much to say. Except that it seems that as I have grown older, I've become less encumbered with the social graces I spent so many torturous years learning; I have, I've concluded, become a social liability.

The evidence, I think, has been there for all except me to see for a while. The thin line dividing chutzpa from rudeness - which I thought I trod so manfully - appears to have become worn out, like a septuagenarian's arthritic hip. I'm 31-years' old and I suffer from foot-in-mouth disease.

Last week, at a conference lecture, there weren't enough handouts to go around. My mate B had to share with someone else.
"Do you want to share," he asked an attractive, young (married) woman sitting behind him.
"Sure," she said.
"Oh, yeah," I bellowed, as she moved seats, with Cadbury's Double-Decker still filling half my mouth. "You say that all the time just to sit next to good-looking women."

I said it to tease my mate. An hour later, he pulled me aside.
"I know there's a thought-process," he said. "But you could have embarrassed her."

He was absolutely right. I just never saw it that way. He told me of at least three other occasions in the previous 24-hours when I'd been equally obnoxious. Yet I was oblivious to it all. Living in my own little 31-turning world. Let's hope the process is reversible.