The beauty of getting older is the ability to care even less. I don't mean knocking over prams in the street and running off laughing, I mean caring about the need to compete with other people. Keeping up with Jones's, Hiltons, Spears and Holmes's. When I sit in the hairdresser's chair with the trash mags piled high I enjoy flicking through page after page of people whom I have no idea of who they are or what they are famous for and that makes me feel all smug and warm. It's a sense of empowerment in being out of touch. A bit like letting technology passing you by. I'm clueless about Wii things, wireless and why I'm the only person who uses punctuation in text messages. Happily ignorant becomes a right of passage similar to the right to say "you would be too young to remember this but...". It seems not long ago a spinach decorated tooth or the open shirt button exposing wobbly white flesh and frayed grey bra would have sent me into a decline of mortification but now it's a minor technicality and I've moved on faster than a ghetto blaster with twin cassette decks. So being the only grey in the village who doesn't have a DVD player, I'll just have to download another cup tea and sit back and watch the iphones pass me by.
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