Life. Down on the farm. Quarterhorse pilot, cocker spaniel servant and goldfish keeper. Oh, and the fun of being a (very) mature Art student with two University student sons. A laugh a minute.... art for sale
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Wednesday, 11 February 2009
18th with glands
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I remember 18 vaguely. I thought all traces of it had been erased until I found myself tagged in some old photos on Farcebook the other day. Everyone sitting round at my mate Trev's drinking cans of pale ale and I'm wearing a shirt that looks as if I'm about to head off for a line dancing session...
Pale Ale...that's a memory. How's the new babe, before you've blinked both those tiny girls will be queueing up for 18th parties and generous Grandfather gifts. The shirts, by the way, have staged a bit of a comeback among the young, too tight for my liking, or maybe I'm just old? Many of the photos from Saturday show teenaged boys flashing their flat bellies, and nipples (why, why?), and young women exposing their cleavages/bras (OMG it makes me feel ancient)
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