Archive for the '45 Years Old' Category

Forty-Five Year Old – George Bowling

 

 

I was trying to shave with a bluntish razor-blade while the water ran into the bath. My face looked back at me out of the mirror, and underneath, in a tumbler of water on the little shelf over the washbasin, the teeth that belonged in the face. It was the temporary set that Warner, my dentist, had given me to wear while the new ones were being made. I haven’t such a bad face, really. It’s one of those bricky-red faces that go with butter-coloured hair and pale blue eyes. I’ve never gone grey or bald, thank God, and when I put my teeth in I probably don’t look my age, which is forty-five.

Making a mental note to buy new razor-blades, I got into the bath and started soaping. I soaped my arms (I’ve got those kind of pudgy arms that are freckled up to the elbow) and then took the back-brush and soaped my shoulder-blades which in the ordinary way I can’t reach. It’s a nuisance, but there are several parts of my body that I can’t reach nowadays. The truth is that I’m inclined to be a little bit on the fat side. I don’t mean that I’m like something in a sideshow at a fair. My weight isn’t much over fourteen stone, and last time I measured around my waist it was either forty-eight or forty-nine, I forget which. And I’m not what they call ‘disgustingly’ fat, I haven’t got one of those bellies that sag half-way down to the knees. It’s merely that I’m a little bit broad in the beam, with a tendency to be barrel-shaped. Do you know the active, hearty kind of fat man, the athletic bouncing type that’s nicknamed Fatty or Tubby and is always the life and soul of the party? I’m that type. ‘Fatty’ they mostly called me. Fatty Bowling. George Bowling is my real name.

 George Orwell, Coming Up For Air

Published in: 45 Years Old | on December 31st, 2010 | No Comments »

Forty-five Year Old – Beatrice Lacy

 

We got up. Giles shook the dust off his hat. Maxim yawned and stretched. The sun went in. I looked up at the sky. It had changed already, a mackerel sky. Little clouds scurrying in formation, line upon line.

‘Wind’s backing,’ said Maxim.

‘I hope we don’t run into rain,’ said Giles.

‘I’m afraid we’ve had the best of the day,’ said Beatrice.

We wandered slowly towards the drive and the waiting car.

‘You haven’t seen what’s been done to the east wing,’ said Maxim.

‘Come upstairs,’ I suggested; ‘it won’t take a minute.’

We went into the hall, and up the big staircase, the men following behind.

It seemed strange that Beatrice had lived here for so many years. She had run down these same stairs as a little girl, with her nurse. She had been born here, bred here; she knew it all, she belonged here more than I should ever do. She must have thought about the days that were gone, ever remembered the lanky pig-tailed child that she had been once, so different from woman she had become, forty-five now, vigorous and settled in her ways, another person…

Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

Published in: 45 Years Old | on December 31st, 2010 | No Comments »