miss marple, margaret rutherford, agatha christie, detective, mystery, weird

Mysteries of Midult life

How did it go from dark at 8pm to dark at 4pm with just a one hour change?

Somebody is lying. Who stole the afternoon? It’s basically lunch.. then night.

Why has November been the longest year ever?

Not forgetting 2019 which has simply evaporated and some of us are still writing 2018 on depression questionnaires or waiver forms. We are crawling through November like it’s one long long long Tough Mudder course and we are out of breath, claustrophobic, panicking, soared in sweat (existential and actual) and hoping that we are still somehow getting away with it. We’re not though, are we?

Why do we fall asleep reading one page of a book but can scroll through Instagram for hours?

One painstakingly brilliant page of prose by a mistress of the art and we are unconscious. Two hours of terrible grammar, punctuation, platitudes and plates of food and we want more MORE MORE. Also we forget the book and remember the nonsense.

Why do we agree to do things we really don’t want to do, even though we know we really don’t want to do them?

Be kind to yourself. Be compassionate. Just say no, why don’t you say no, can’t you say no, ffs, LOSER.

Why are people still calling the vulva the vagina?

Surely there’s been enough of an awakening by now. But no. Even experts when they write books they get it wrong. Why is everyone so scared of the vulva which, incidentally, is everything on the outside? Let’s make 2020 the year of the vulva.

Why do we go from tiny grey roots to absolute badger overnight?

One minute it’s just the little wispy patch that looks like we are going bald but it’s really just because the hair is white now (*shudders*) and the next you wake up with a Mallen streak and you are not ready, your hairdresser is not ready and the world isn’t ready. You wear a hat for two days like an old-fashioned spy, scuttling around the dark corners, trying to fit a touch-up into your diary which is basically impossible. You hate your diary.

Why does it feel as if the kettle takes longer and longer to boil?

It’s like we are in one of those nasty Roald Dahl Tales of the Unexpected stories which mean that one day we will run out of the house screaming, having murdered the cat, because it’s taking an hour to boil the kettle. Are we in Black Mirror? Or maybe we should just consider getting a new kettle? Or maybe we are being tortured? Like the socks! The socks! Where are all the other socks? For sock’s sake.

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