me me me me.........

I'm getting older and feeling it. I turn the car radio down when I come up to a busy junction. I groan involuntary when I sit down, and the other day I caught myself sighing with satisfaction when I had sat down. Life's speeding up and I want to slow down. My eldest daughter has just turned 19, but my youngest is only 12. That means I have only 4 years left to work out how I'm going to spend my life once it's mine again. Probably sitting down a lot and sighing. I have done a lot of things, but until my DNA links me to those events I'm going to stick with my denial stories. R2-D2, Scotty from Star Trek and the Fonz all convinced my young impressionable mind that I would like to fix things when I got older. Three years of engineering and 15 years as a motorcycle mechanic I emerged a bitter, poor and dirty individual. I started a second hand bookshop with the missus, and watched it slowly starve to death as my savings ran dry.Then I got a job in a school as 'Print Room Guy'. I was allowed to wear a cape and stand on the roof occasionally looking heroic and contemplate printing matters of the highest importance. The children left me alone, the teachers got my name wrong, but I got 12 weeks holiday a year. For all those '9 to 5'ers', or people that own their own business's and know holidays as periods of time they get further in debt, that's TWELVE WEEKS A YEAR HOLIDAY. But having 'That guy who did the photocopying' on my grave stone bothered me, so I allowed myself to become a teacher. Now all the children get my name wrong as well as the teachers.  I have two dogs, Pippin and Hera, both Lurchers. Their ability to fart would rival Bealzibubs own anal venom, but they give me great solace. I have an old cat, who has remained looking about two for the last 16 years, leading me to think she is not all she appears to be. Maybe cat spit is the elixir of life, and no one has yet thought to test it, or she is one of a long line of identical cats sent to spy on me. I was born in Bushey in Hertforshire, even though at the time the family home was in Harrow in Middlesex. To my acute embarrassment, I have, after traveling the world a little bit and living elsewhere in Britain, inexplicably returned and found myself settled back here. Explorers of the world would snub me for this, and my childhood adventuring spirit has found itself trussed up and gagged. Surely by now I should be the head of a small undiscovered nation, living in an incredible series of tree-houses in the jungle finishing off my cure to cancer. But no, I am here in rural suburbia flicking through TV channels, contemplating what music I would like at my funeral. I have a few friends I will keep for my whole life, but only see maybe once a year or two. I have one friend I see weekly who is hiding a terrible life secret, and I owe it to him to regularly see him to stop him from confessing to his wife. I bide my life with my wife, Sharlyn, my kids, Pinky and Perky, and my dogs. I won't mention my cat, as I'm not sure she is the same one I started off with, and she may be listening.