Never too old for teddy bears (with teeth)

Turns out I’m officially another year older today.

My collection of grey hairs is growing, and I’m ok with that, although it would be nice if they worked together to form some kind of cool streak rather than taking their random pepper-gun approach.

I’m not particularly one for worrying about age, although—and maybe it’s to do with all the chaos in the world, the many significant reminders of our own mortality—this year feels like a weird one. I know I’m not past it, but sometimes you need to remind yourself that you’re never too old, right? Because you see all those posts on ‘things to do before you’re 30’ (which I left in my rear-view a long time ago) and there sometimes seems to be a black hole after that. Like the world thinks that after 30 you ain’t doing nothing but waiting for Countdown to come on telly, or writing to Points of View, or hanging plates on the wall.

And if that’s what you like doing then that’s grand and you-do-you and enjoy every single second of it. Because you gotta do what you gotta do, and you never know what’s coming up next. But never let age stop you doing something, never let age psyche you out. Write that book, start that course, get in that moshpit (when they’re back, one day), learn the recorder. Your body might be a meat-car with a few more dents collected along the way, but inside you’re fresh from passing your driver’s licence and the satnav can get fucked because you’re going maverick, baby.

Or something like that.

Because you can grow old and not grow up.

And today I got a teddy bear.

With teeth.

And that leads us to the really big question of the day—what’s it called?

Answers on a postcard*, please.

*Comments and twittering also acceptable

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