I know I still owe a post on the Arctic Monkeys, I haven't forgotten (well, I had but I remembered when I saw that they'd won the Mercury Prize). Apparently its more important that I write about a way-point on the road to getting old.
I sat in front of the TV and watched Boris Becker play Michael Stich in the 1991 Wimbledon final. As the game was being played in the British summer, it got a bit cold and I distinctly recall Becker pulling on a cardigan between ends. At the time all I could think was, “Wow, only Grandfathers wear cardigans.” There I was accusing the youngest ever winner of a men's Wimbledon Single title of being old at the age of 24.
So now I get to the good bit, the bit that Hagrid's been waiting for; on the way home yesterday I saw a cardigan in the window of a shop, thought it looked nice and have since considered going back on the weekend to try it on.
If Andre 3000 is allowed to wear paisley, then surely I can wear a cardigan if I want to. I may have taken a like to clothes Mr Hooper might have worn but I'm comfortable with that. I suppose that part of the human condition is the drive to constantly reinvent yourself and if this is the first step in a certain direction what's next? Tartan slippers? 6 o'clock glasses of sherry? A need to read the obituaries in the paper? I just hope I stop short of developing a taste for lard sandwiches.