Here’sh a shtory I told today on Twitter (but I’ve put it together again sho you don’t have to shcroll through all the tweetsh) – jusht on a whim. That’sh how I roll.
Onshe upon a time there wash an old man – we’ll call him Tam.
He wash really quite old and hish kneesh hurt a bit, and hish eyebrowsh were grey. He liked to think that took away none of hish dash, but in truth a grey eyebrow ish less emphatic than a dark one and even hish frownsh began to lack frownynessh.
He grew hish beard, whichsh wash white, and ash long ash he cleaned shoup off it regularly it remained shnowy, like the remaining hair on hish head.
However, living in Shcotland meant that hish formerly tanned shkin had become paler and paler over time and, becaushe of the kneesh and other achesh and painsh, he played lessh golf and shoon the tan faded away until he wash ash peely-wally ash plashterwork.
Hish lovely lady wife bought him shome fashial shtuff to rub into hish shkin, a kind of bronzher, but it shmelt bad and he didn’t like how it clung to hish moushtashe.
He shtopped wearing hish trademark black cashmere and began to wear white clothesh, compared to whichsh hish shkin did appear healthier – not ash white ash white paint, or ash milk, not ash pale ash the whitesh of hish eyesh (whichsh were a bit yellow).
And he found that wearing white clothesh made people look at him differently. They opened doorsh for him. They brought him a chair, carried hish tea-tray. All rather puzzhling. Eventshually he ashked a man, who had tried very hard to help him acrossh the shtreet, ‘Why..?’
The man shaid ‘Oh, Father, a man of the cloth like yourshelf deshervesh help and reshpect in the community.’
And lo, the old grey man realished he’d gone from being a Shexsh Shymbol to being conshidered a Shaint or a Priesht, all becaushe he changed from dark coloursh to pale onesh.
And verily, he wash amushed.
The shtart of a new year – and sho far, I’ve been shomewhat remissh in my mission to provide shoup reshipesh to the world and hish auntie. That wash, at one point, the limit of my ambishionsh on Twitter.
When I shtarted tweeting, jusht a year ago, thingsh shoupy were my main topic of convershashion. But then, shoon enough there were more topical thingsh to dischussh, and in reshent monthsh I have been rather philoshophical in mood, shome might shay poetic or even exshishtenshialisht.
Nothing wrong with that, although it hash revealed that shome followersh feel my role ish only to amushe.
Reminder: dear friendsh, behind thish tanned, familiar, film-shtarry, admittedly octagenarian vishage there ish a human being with all the upsh and downsh of anyone elshe’sh life and moodsh.
Time movesh on. We move on. We evolve, we shed shkinsh, we reemerge ash new vershionsh of our shelvesh, our many shelvesh. (No, not shelvesh ash in booksh, the other shelvesh.)
Mr Bowie contemplatesh time lyrically in hish shong Changesh: “Time may change me, I can’t trashe time”.
I would take isshue with him on the matter of logic there, though, becaushe you can trashe the journey of time.. acrossh your own fashe. Time itshelf may be a non-linear conshept, the shape of whichsh ish beyond our undershtanding – but in the world we’re all living in right now, the world of yeshterday followed by today followed by tomorrow, where we move towardsh an unknown future, like the invishible end of a long paper shcroll drawn by a Chineshe artisht of shome unpronounshable dynashty, we can at leasht shee evidenshe of that movement in our shelves – we shee it in the daily addishion of linesh and marksh and foldsh and shun-damage on our shkin, we shee it in the – ahem – resheding hairlinesh. We can, actshually, trashe time, but we cannot shtop it.
And I’ll shtop there, for now, with that thought. And with thish pic of shome calloush pershon ushing my fashe ash a timepieshe. Hmph.
Nexsht time, shoup!