I'm walking through Norwich today, looking for a tapas bar that Sue and I ate in about a year ago when I pass four teenage girls. Moments after, I hear one of them say "That bloke's got grey hair and a brown moustache". There's a pause, then her friend pipes up "Yeah, but he's old, isn't he?" Apparently age means I'm no longer culpable for my grotesque appearance and inconsistent hair colour.
Then I catch myself in a shop window and realise that I've accidentally dressed like a decrepit Freddie Mercury. Perhaps I shouldn't be allowed out, at least not during the day.
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