Forty in Five Years

In five years we’ll be different ages. Your haircut will be exactly the same. We’ll have appetisers before meals. We’ll switch our cartoon character cereal to bran and prunes and we’ll dial back the fruit juice and take up jogging and what bores us now will bore us more, the same way the stuff of our twenties irks us: Coldplay and Sideways and Ricky Gervais.

In ten years we’ll be dead or we won’t but people we know will be. I make you watch sad films for this reason. When we were kids you predicted me dying my hair yellow, that I’d end up liking Nirvana. On Ouija boards and off of them I spell messages for you that you’re still solving and one day you’ll have learnt enough to decipher them. I might die before you.

In twenty years we’ll hold CDs up in shaky hands and declare them music. We’ll ask kids if they remember VHS or a time before mobiles existed, and they’ll look at us the way we looked at our parents when they talked about Betamax, when they described gramophones. We’ll try to trace paths with movies and books and advert jingles back to the time this started but everything’s so referential, retro, throwing back to two other times at least, we can’t get a clean path, we won’t. I’ll ask, “Remember when we watched New Girl?” and you’ll say, Jack will, “We never fucking watched that. I’m not senile yet.”

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