Getting old

So another one of those annoying emails arrived at my inbox yesterday. You know the ones - pass this on, you've just been hugged, you know you're getting old when..... Usually I delete them and pretend they never existed - still waiting for karma give me a good solid boot for that - and move on.

I have seen this one before, but I really do like it. It reminds me how stupidly paranoid and PC we are becoming. For me, PC is something that sits on my desk and has no other connotation. F'rinstance the mail makes a statement along the lines of mum defrosting the meat on the kitchen sink, taking sandwiches to school, wrapped in wax paper and put in a brown paper bag - you could always tell the rich kids, theirs was wrapped in rainbow coloured paper - not a coldpack, and no recollection of anyone getting ecoli. Yes! AND we used to swap lunches if you didn't like what your mum had packed that day. Did that many a time.

We said prayers and sung the National Anthem, were force fed free milk at morning tea - ugh, hated that bit cause sometimes the milk was warm - oh, and didn't like having to wash out the bottles in an aluminium garbage can - and getting detention was uber uncool. (There, Teen, I said it!)

We played in the vacant lot, doing stupid things on a pile of gravel left by a construction company and when we got hurt we went to mum for a bandaid, a hug and a 'get back out there'. Now, it's off to the dr, a course of antibiotics and mum phones the solicitor to sue the pants off the company for leaving the gravel there.

You were too scared to play up at your mate's place. You'd get your butt smacked there, and a double dose of trouble when you got home! If your mate hurt themselves doing something stupid, they'd get a swat from their mum for being a yobbo. These days she could own your house.

Ah, fond memories of growing up with a sense of freedom denied in today's world. They were the good old days. Blimmin' heck! I'm beginning to sound like my grandmother........ !