Something not altogether pleasant must have happened in my brain. I can only put it down to the fact that I am definitely aging. Today I was playing a Cliff Richard Christmas CD (a give-away from the paper) in my car and I was enjoying it! "Mistletoe and Wine" is (was) my all-time most hated song and yet there I was singing along! I fervently hope that this new-found Cliff groupiness has something to do with me being a bit of a rebel. If the radio stations aren't going to play his music then I am. But a big part of me is very worried that this is the new me. Next month I shall receive my bus pass in the post - then what? Heaven save me from Barry Manilow.
Oscar has already identified all the age spots on my hands and face, although I call them beauty spots. This week when I was sitting next to him in the car he stared at my neck. What is it this time, I thought. "What's that red thing on your neck?" he asked. "Is it a beauty spot?" I said. "No it isn't", "is it a line?" "no". I told him to point to it on my neck. "Well, if it isn't a beauty spot or a line, it must be dirt," I told him. He leant as far away from me as he could, within the confines of his car seat, looked at his finger and wiped it on his jumper. I should think that the entire pre-school fraternity now believes that Oscar's grandma has a dirty neck.
Oscar's mummy says that when she was last shopping with him, he saw a toy that he fancied. "Put it to the back of the shelf and we'll tell Father Christmas to save it for you," she told him, cleverly thinking on the spot. She carried on shopping but began to wonder what the supermarket shelf-stackers were looking at. When she turned round she saw that Oscar had pushed almost everything to the back of the shelves in preparation for Santa's visit.
