Nothing dramatic.
Just several increasingly specific requirements.
Still Me is about the point where preferences quietly become policy. Somewhere along the way, comfortable chairs started mattering, parking became part of the planning and nine-thirty acquired the atmosphere of a minor emergency. None of this counts as getting older, obviously. It is simply the result of spending years discovering exactly what works, then becoming understandably suspicious of anyone suggesting something else. Same person. Same carefree spirit. Just send the postcode first.
Nothing dramatic.
Just preferences.
Used to leave the house on impulse, now I like a little warning.
Ask me Friday about the weekend, that’s already fairly short notice.
Somewhere quiet would be lovely, somewhere I can hear the table.
Somewhere chairs were built for sitting, not a test of core stability.
Nothing changed. I’m still me.
Just ideally home by three.
I’m not getting old, I’m getting particular.
Still up for anything, just nothing too spontaneous.
Give me a postcode, a time and somewhere sane.
Nothing’s really different.
I’ve just changed nearly everything.
I have opinions now on pillows.
Apparently that happened.
I’ve compared two brands of slippers
and meant every word with passion.
Weather used to be background.
Now it affects proceedings.
Parking used to sort itself out.
Now it’s part of the meeting.
Still relaxed. Still carefree.
Just send the postcode first to me.
I’m not getting old, I’m getting particular.
Still up for anything, just nothing too spontaneous.
Give me a postcode, a time and somewhere sane.
Nothing’s really different.
I’ve just changed nearly everything.
There’s a mug I quite like using.
No, the other one is wrong.
There’s a route I always take now.
No, I don’t need something new.
I’ve spent years finding what works.
Why would I start over for you?
Plans cancelled? Terrible shame.
I’d already changed my clothes though,
so perhaps another day.
Nine-thirty sounds quite late now.
That’s apparently where we are.
And I’ve caught myself saying,
“We’ve got perfectly good food.”
Still the same. Still alive.
Just don’t make me leave at five.
I don’t need much.
A bit of notice.
Somewhere quiet.
Easy parking.
No surprises.
And apparently…
a specific mug.
I’m not getting old, I’m getting particular.
Still up for anything, just nothing too spontaneous.
Give me a postcode, a time and somewhere sane.
Nothing’s really different.
I’ve just changed nearly everything.
I’m not getting old.
Let’s not make this weird.
I just think nine-thirty’s late.
And turn that down.
It’s ridiculous.