Aimee Horton

It’s taken a while to say out loud but it’s true, I’m a young fogey.

I first heard the phrase Young Fogey when trawling through Grazia, a magazine I love for so many reasons (clothes, make up, gossip), but that also reminds me how much I’ve aged in the last 36 months (I’m too old for said clothes, make up, gossip).

As soon as I read the title I knew I was going to empathise.  Apart from the article asking whether Will and Kate were old before their time,  there were images of Le Creuset kitchenware (in MY colour), and nude shoes.  It talked about loud music in bars (HATE), skirts are far too short on girls these days (OBSCENE), and pinterest accounts being full of kitchenware (WHAT  is wrong with star shaped muffin cases and cool herb pots?).

It made me realise if it’s good enough for Kate, my new coral jean clad hero, it’s good enough for me, so here I am, shouting from the roof tops the things that make me old before my time….although not too loudly, I don’t want to disturb anybody.

I listen to Classic FM.

Yes. That’s right.  I listen to it and I love it.  Often in an evening, if my husband is late back and the monsters are in bed, after I’ve tidied up and put dinner on, I sit down with a glass of wine, the laptop and after a few moments of blissful silence, I pop the radio on.  Gone are the days when I used to listen to Britney, Cheryl and Spice Girls (THAT WAS COOL OK?), and now I happily tune into Classic FM on.  Listen to the music and even chuckle at the presenter.

I’m not saying I don’t listen to other music, it’s not just Classic, but the fact that I tune in is – in my opinion – somewhat questionable for my age.

I also guess it’s the time to admit I am not a huge fan of Radio 1 anymore. I TRY.  I really really do.  I listen to Moyles/Fern/That young chap and Scott Mills when I’m in the car, I might even enjoy the odd snigger, but it makes me tired.

That’s right.  The person meant to wake you up in the morning makes me tired, plus, the music is all this BOONGA BOONGA BOONGA stuff.  With like, talking in the middle.

I’ve just read this paragraph back and cried.

I like comfortable shoes

This is probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to admit.

I like comfy shoes.

The days where trip trapping in 4 inch heels that cause blood blisters have gone, as are the evenings where I didn’t mind if my shoes slowly sunk into the mud as I stood in a beer garden slowly getting sozzled (er, I think that word only confirms this piece).

I like shoes that don’t hurt.  I can’t help it.  I used to blame the children “oh I don’t want to stand on their fingers” or “it’s so much easier to chase after them in flats”, but the truth is, THEY HURT.  My legs hurt, my ankles hurt, my toes hurt.  They make me tired.  THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BROGUES OR BALLET PUMPS!  I will wear them for a special occasion, although if I get the chance I’ll opt for the safer Wedge option.

And whilst I don’t agree with the girl who works in the nursery with the boys, I don’t think there is anything wrong with going out on a Saturday night in your Uggs if it’s snowing, I do concede that there might be something wrong with going to the shop to buy chocolate and wine in your slippers. *cough*

Some of my favourite songs are 10 years old (and more)

For somebody with not very cool music taste, there were a few songs from my youth that were probably classed as cool.

I loved The Verve, Oasis and Blur.  Some of my running soundtracks include Blink 182, The Cardigans, Placebo, Travis and Garbage.  Not necessarily “cool”, but perhaps some of them have more credibility than Girls Aloud, Britters and Leona.

Anyway, that’s beside the point.  The point is, a lot of my favourite songs, the ones I tune into most frequently, are OLD.  The credible songs I’d hang onto, that I quote when cool people asked me what music I like, the ones I would respond with will be 15 years old next month.

If I’m asked what I think of Jessie J (she’s ok as long as she doesn’t talk), Tulisa (chavisa?), Ceelo Green (who with the what now?), along with who is number one this week, my response is “I dunno”, before I google (Rita Ora – who the chuff now?!).

Plus.  When asked if I watched Britains Got Talent, I’m not ashamed to admit that I was watching a programme on Mediterranean gardens).

That’s not good is it?

I don’ like going out

That’s not strictly true.  I do.  I like going out for a nice meal, for a drink, and when I’m actually out I DO enjoy it.  However, I hate the thought of going out.

Long gone are the days where I used to love getting dressed up for a night out.  Sneaky pre-going out drink set on the dressing table, music on loud while the three hour getting ready session commences are now cut to a minimum.  I am able to get showered, dressed, and make up on within 45 minutes these days.

I suppose the routine was probably changed when I went out when the boys were young.  Hair and make-up done at military speed, clothes not on until the taxi beeps to avoid vomit stains, then boobs straining at the sound of any drunken crying which resembled a sobbing baby.

Plus, the mornings where I can lie in, nursing a poorly head, trying to remember  what happened the night before, are no more.  In fact, gone are the days where I can go to sleep after 10pm and not suffer the next day. THE CHILDREN KNOW if I need more sleep, that’s the days they reserve for getting up extra early.

I know I could go out and not get drunk, and I have, but I still seem to suffer the morning after, getting into bed any time after about 11pm results in waking up with a lack of sleep hangover.  It’s just not FUN anymore. Plus, why go out with my pals when I can’t chat to them.  I much prefer a civilised drink in a quiet bar with a good chat, rather than just drinking and shouting.

As I’ve typed this entire post I’ve sighed.  I’m sure I’m meant to want my cool back, but actually I don’t think I do. I quite like the quiet life these days, and maybe, on hindsight, the “wild” times weren’t as fun as I remembered, maybe because my nights “out” are few and far between and don’t end with falling down, I enjoy them more, because when I think back, for every ah-maze-ing wild night, there were 10 dud ones that resulted in tears, tantrums and headaches.

Now I’m off to wash my dressing gown so it’s nice and cuddly for my evening on the sofa.