Waitrose. A bottle of half-decent Riesling. A flashing light above my kiosk.
She cranes her neck round to look at me. She flashes me an awkward, closed-lip smile and jabs her meaty finger at the ‘Visibly over 25’ button.
I don’t get IDed anymore. Not since the long-lost olden days, when my skin was dewey and my outlook fresh; my eyes not yet purple-ringed and my spine not yet gnarled or knackered.
It used to be such an adventure. For years as a teenager a night drinking involved a long trek to the Bargain Booze across town, hours of walking only to buy a bottle of Sambuca and inevitably blow aniseed-flavour chunks by the end of the evening.
The Night Out was a more adventurous proposition back in those days. Scraping together money between friends trying to score any sort of mind-alterer, rushing our coins to the Metro bank to get one crisp tenner shared between three.
Dictated by necessity, we roamed and wandered. Nowadays, the Last Train is checked and checked again, kebab menus are scanned for calories, and there’s barely a repetitive sniffle in sight.
Out Out is no longer a battle of ‘getting in’. If I’m not getting in now, it’s because they think I’ll scare the ketted up 18-year-olds off the dancefloor. At least I’m not wearing my string vest these days.
Ironic dances are had to ironic music, double rum-and-cokes are shared so as to save money for an Uber home. It used to be all for the night. Now the best bit is getting into bed at the end.
This is my my mid-midlife crisis. No realistic prospect of house ownership and yet no longer full of gleeful irresponsibility. The worst of both worlds.
I have a job. I wear glasses. I occasionally listen to music made by Wings.
I think the people I used to know would be shocked. Would they be proud? I don’t know. Isn’t it a bit like locking a tiger in a zoo?
I’m twenty-four and a half, and visibly over twenty-five.
