Where are my cats?

I have a confession to make. Yesterday, I had a moment. This was one of those moments that, if I were in a novel, a critic might perhaps call 'portentous'. Assuming said novel was any good, this moment would be studied in modern lit classes across the globe, and would feature as the pre-eminent example of the inescapability of death, the inevitability of ageing, and the tragic, bittersweet transience of life. As it is, with the rights to my existence currently going for the bargain price of .01 cent (AUD), I shall have to content myself with the knowledge that it was simply the time when I realised that one should never put off doing pelvic floor exercises until later in life. The future is now, people; the future is now.

Despite this, however, it started out as a normal evening. I left work at 6 and was exiting the begijnhof (a kind of convent), leaving through the front gate as I always do. Birds were chirruping, the sun was out, and all was well with the world. Suddenly, however, a whizzing, bumping noise, a sound often connected either with imminent death or the BMX Bandits arose behind me. I turned just in time to see a kid of about 12 fly past me on his bike, careering slightly out of control on the cobbles. I jumped back and he whooshed through the narrow gate, nearly collecting both me and my bag on the way.

Now, on such an occasion there are many things I could, nay, should have done –my screaming banshee, my foul-mouthed fishwife, or even my shrieking strumpet, perchance – all would usually have gone down a thespian treat in such circumstances. But I choked. I flailed. In the face of such impertinent youthfulness, I had nothing, and not even the slightest whisper in the international language of anger could escape my pursed lips. Thus against my will, I was forced to pull the theatrical equivalent of the silent-but-deadly; the angry girl’s hara-kiri … I released my inner crone. That’s right. In a moment of preteen-induced trauma, I heard it, the voice in my head (not the voices, let's at least make that distinction. This one sounds like my own voice, but is infinitely less nasal and usually more culturally au fait), uttered the fatal words that distinguish the living from the living-on-canned-goods: “kids these days …”.

I couldn’t believe it. Just in case you didn't get it, and seeing as that’s what old people do, I’ll repeat myself: at 25 years of age, I said, “kids these days”. If I’d just been holding a carpet-bag, used the word 'varmints', and smelled a little like cheese, I'd have made a fully-fledged transition from moderately eccentric young woman to that weird lady who sits on your tram and tries to make you eat her sandwich. Now I know I am not old, I have only been walking, staggering, and occasionally, when the money’s a bit tight, loitering around this earth for the last quarter of a century, but this made me realise that perhaps I am no longer exactly young, either.

This realisation of course sent me into a spiral of despair and self-doubt: what have I done with my youth? Did I leave it somewhere? Do I still have the receipt? Even though all I really wanted was a nice cup of tea and a backrub, I decided that it was time for me to do something crazy; something exuberant, youthful, something that would make the world sit up and take notice.

I was high on life, my adrenals were a’pumping; or at the very least, there was definitely a pulse... Where to go? What to do with all this new-found vigour coursing through my veins? So, any guesses, ladies and gents? Hands up - what did I do? What couldn't you do, I hear you chorus?! I’ll tell you what I did: I left work, I went home …

I fell asleep on my bed.

For three hours.

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