The Damaged

I think I must be. I fear that is the only explantion for the horror-story you are about to read. Something worrying happened to me the other day which almost makes me laugh–if I didn’t laugh then I’d cry–

I had been watching a TV show about Newport property, then I was watching a popular TV soap concerning not the West End of London, but another. Unusual for me, but I was getting in to it. Then, the next thing I knew, I was thinking My goodness, it’s cold in here. (We all know that anyone who starts off a sentence with My goodness is probably already without hope, but I’d been saying it since I was a young boy, so I felt sure that didn’t make me old.) And it was then, at this life defining moment, when I said, out loud, “I think there’s a bit of a draft coming from under that d—“

I froze. My hands shot up to my face. I had done it. I had spoken the unspeakable. And so my friends began to laugh and joke. And that was when someone dared utter the taboo: “Wow, you’re really getting old John”.

“I am not!” I answered, but it was too late. Desperate and all out of options I did the only thing I could: grabbed my friend Steve and led him to where the draft could be felt with force. Except Steve said he couldn’t feel a thing, and so did everyone. It was like the draft had been sent to get me–a messenger to the fact that I was getting old–

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