The Middle Ages..

No, I'm not talking about knights, swords, men being made King by having some watery tart chucking a sword at them or even the days of old when men were bold and johnny's weren't invented..

No, I'm talking about that moment of realisation when you know for a fact that your twenties are now quite definitely behind you..

As a recent arrival to the "thirty-something" fraternity, I have tried to resist this stigma of being "over thirty".. I mean, I still watch Big Brother, I know who the Arctic Monkeys are (and have their album), I have WiFi in my house, and I still find a well timed fart incredibly funny - how can I be even remotely considered Middle Aged?

But the evidence is there, gentle reader, may I present Exhibit A: My Sunday.

Sunday consisted of a morning spent in DIY stores, and an afternoon spent in a garden centre. 
Christ, fetch me my pipe and slippers now for I am doomed.

I can still remember those awful Sunday afternoons from my childhood where I was dragged to stores like B&Q and to Garden Centres, and it felt at the time like some exquisite form of torture dreamed up by my parents to bore the living crap out of me.  Aisles and aisles of potted plants, plant pots, plants, pots, wheelbarrows, little bird tables, etc - it really was the stuff of nightmares.. And this was before Ground Force tried to convince people that gardening was important, or interesting (and, let me tell you: it's really not, honestly.  It's still just shrubs and grass and paving stones and nothing remotely worth enthusing about).  I can also remember the strong resolve of my five year old self pledging never to step foot in such places once I had enough independence to make a choice about such things (obviously my parents were not going to leave a child unattended at home, alone - pity really, as Hollywood has taught me that such a scenario would have lead to fantastically amusing crime-fighting capers which I'm sure, with my collection of Meccano, marbles and Star Wars figures would have seen me a glorious victor over the dim-witted would-be burglars). 

Yet here I was, stuck on a Sunday afternoon surrounded by conifers, bedding plants, wheelbarrows and little statues of terriers) and all the childhood horror came flooding back..

What the hell am I doing here? 
How did this happen? 
When did I get talked into this? 
Why?
Why me?
Why, God, why?

To be fair, Garden Centres are trying to make the whole experience a bit more bearable for the little 'uns.  The one I found myself in had a sit-on steam train ride that our four year old enjoyed immensely and it certainly seemed to provide enough of a distraction to stop him from fully realising that he'd been dragged here against his will.  (Well, I assume it did, at no point did he begin screaming and that's normally a good sign). However they've still not installed a pub to placate me from the full horror of being stuck in such a place (I managed to refrain from screaming too but it took every part of my being to override what seemed like a perfectly natural response).

So I have reached that point in my life where I have to do these things on a Sunday, have I?  I now have to visit a wide variety of Do-It-Yourself shops and be interested in bathroom suites, do I?  I now visit garden centres and having to feign interest in conifers and bedding plants, do I? 

Blimey, that kind of snuck up on me. 

I almost feel like taking a carrier bag full of speed and going clubbing for 72 hours just to restore the balance somewhat. 

Still could be worse, at least I've not resorted to car boot sales and antique fairs yet.. if I get that far, please shoot me (you have my permission).