Getting Older Is Like Running Windows 95

When I was younger, I imagined getting older would be a graceful process.

You'd become wiser. More patient. More sophisticated. You'd sip wine, read books, and dispense life advice to younger people who'd finally realise how brilliant you were all along.

Turns out, getting older is less like becoming a wise elder and more like trying to run Windows 95 in 2026.

Technically it still works.

It just takes a while to boot up.

Every morning begins with a series of loading screens. Knees first. Then hips. Then lower back. My neck usually joins the conversation somewhere around breakfast.

If I stand up too quickly, my entire operating system freezes while it decides whether today's going to be a good day or whether it's going to throw an unexpected error message.

"Balance.exe has stopped working."

Then there are the updates.

I went to the hairdresser yesterday to get my lovely silver hair back. Instead of silver, it had developed a rather attractive shade somewhere between yellow and swamp water. Apparently it could be the shampoo. Or the water. Which means I now need a shower filter.

A shower filter!

When did washing my hair become a chemistry experiment? Nothing is ever simple anymore. I buy silver shampoo. Now I apparently need a different conditioner. Then a treatment. Then a filter for the shower. By next week I'll probably need a laboratory technician standing beside me with a clipboard.

Every problem seems to generate three more purchases.

I don't remember my mother needing an engineering degree just to wash her hair. Then there's the memory. I can remember the phone number of the boy who sat next to me in primary school. I cannot remember why I've just walked into the laundry. Or where I left my glasses. Usually, they're on top of my head.

I've reached that wonderful stage of life where I spend ten minutes looking for my phone while using the torch on... my phone. The body's no better. Bits of me make noises now. Not painful noises. Just... announcements.

Every time I stand up, my knees sound like someone slowly crushing a packet of barbecue Shapes. Apparently that's normal. So is discussing bowel habits with complete strangers. Nobody warns you about that.

At twenty-five, if someone had told me a conversation about fibre could last forty minutes, I'd have laughed. Now I'm contributing. Enthusiastically.

And passwords.

Sweet Jesus, the passwords. Every website wants a different one. Must contain a capital letter. A number. A symbol. The blood of a unicorn. The tears of your first-born child.

Then they ask you to prove you're not a robot.

At my age, I'm not entirely convinced.

Still, I wouldn't go back. Sure, the software's a bit buggy. Some of the hardware has seen better days. The memory's patchy. The maintenance costs have skyrocketed. But the older version of me worried far too much about things that don't matter.

This version laughs more. Says no more. Knows who her real friends are. And has finally accepted that perfection was never the goal. Besides...

Windows 95 may have been slow... ...but it still got the job done.

And so do I.

😊

Why Does Being Blonde Require a Degree in Chemistry?

I went to the hairdresser today.

Now, when I was younger, going to the hairdresser involved sitting in a chair, chatting about absolutely nothing for an hour, paying an alarming amount of money and leaving looking vaguely the same; just nicer washed locks.

Apparently, those days are over.

These days my hair has opinions.

I want silver.

My hair wants to be a swamp.

Somewhere between the shampoo, the water, the atmosphere and possibly the alignment of Jupiter, my lovely silver hair has developed an unattractive green-yellow tinge. I currently resemble an elderly tennis ball…

Poor Kim (my hairdresser) spent ages trying to rescue it, with first one stripper and then another (not the good kind either)

"It's probably your shampoo. It could be the minerals in your water. You might need a filter."

A filter. Not for drinking (I only drink bottled water). For washing my bloody hair.

I apparently need industrial water treatment just to avoid looking like Shrek's grandmother. Nobody warns you about this when you're young. They didn’t tell me about wrinkles. Or aching knees.

Nobody says, "By the way, your hair may one day react to municipal water supplies."

Every part of ageing seems to become a science experiment. You don't buy shampoo anymore. You buy purple shampoo. Silver shampoo. Clarifying shampoo. Moisturising shampoo. Shampoo that removes minerals. Shampoo that adds minerals. Shampoo that costs more than a decent bottle of wine (and I’d rather have the wine!).

Then someone tells you you're using it too often. Or not often enough. Or you're leaving it on for three minutes instead of four. It's like baking a bloody cake.

And don't get me started on conditioners.

Apparently, one repairs. One protects. One hydrates. One seals. One detoxifies. My hair has a better support team than I do.

The solution now appears to be fitting a water filter to the bathroom. I swear, by the time I reach seventy, I'll have reverse-osmosis plumbing feeding directly into the shower. All because I wanted to look naturally silver.

The irony, of course, is that the hair growing out of my head is naturally silver. Then, it turns into guacamole. Growing old really is fucked. Because every week you discover another body part that requires specialist equipment.

Everyone's Opinion Comes With Entrance Music

I've noticed something strange about the internet.

Nobody simply has an opinion anymore. Every bloody opinion arrives with entrance music.

You know the sort of thing. The metaphorical guitar riff starts playing. Smoke pours across the stage. Fireworks explode. Someone strides confidently towards the keyboard, points dramatically at an invisible enemy and prepares to deliver the hottest take the internet has ever seen.

At least, that's how they imagine it.

Nobody says, "I quite like this movie."

No. It's either the greatest masterpiece ever created or absolute garbage made by talentless idiots who should never work again. Politics is worse. People don't quietly explain why they support a particular policy. They march into the comments section as though they're entering a championship fight.

The crowd cheers.

The crowd boos.

Someone inevitably announces they're "destroying" someone else with facts and logic.

Nobody is destroyed. Everyone is just annoyed. The internet has somehow convinced us that every opinion deserves a dramatic unveiling.

It's all wonderfully theatrical considering most of us are sitting in our pyjamas with a cup of coffee and a biscuit that's gone a bit soft.

The strange thing is that real life doesn't work like this.

You can have a conversation with someone who votes differently, watches different television, barracks for another football team or thinks pineapple belongs on pizza, and somehow the world keeps turning.

Nobody needs theme music.

Nobody needs pyrotechnics.

Sometimes it's enough to simply have an opinion.

Colder Than A Witches Tit…

That is a teenager description, if ever I heard one; but that doesn’t negate the fact that it’s bloody freezing here. 

In fact it’s only 10 degrees but it feels much colder. 

I’m stilll in bed. I think I’ll stay here!

The Entire Internet Thinks It's WWE

I sometimes wonder if we accidentally replaced democracy, conversation and common sense with professional wrestling and nobody noticed.

Not actual wrestling, of course. Real wrestling requires athletic ability, training and a frightening willingness to wear sparkly lycra in public.

I'm talking about the performance. 

Everything online now feels like WWE. 

Every issue has heroes and villains. Every disagreement requires a dramatic entrance. Every opinion must be delivered as though you're standing on the ropes pointing at your enemy while pyrotechnics explode behind you.

Nobody simply disagrees anymore.

You can't say, "I think taxes should be lower." No. You must declare war.  You must inform the internet that the opposing side are either evil communists trying to destroy civilisation or greedy capitalists determined to grind the poor into dust.

There is no middle ground because middle ground doesn't get clicks. The algorithms don't reward sensible. They reward spectacle.

The internet has convinced us that every issue is a championship match, and every conversation is a title fight.

Maybe that's why we're all so tired.

We're living in a world where every day is WrestleMania.

And if there's one thing I've learned, it's this:

When every argument is treated like the main event, eventually nobody can remember what they were fighting about in the first place.

They just know they're supposed to keep booing.