Tick tock, I'm getting old!

My watch is killing me... seriously.
While the second hand plays table tennis with my head, the hour hand is clutching my throat.

(Yeah, okay, I am exaggerating. But just allow me a little metaphor for the sake of a blog, please!)

The thing is, every time I look at my watch, I realise I am getting older. The grey hairs in the mirror are also a dead giveaway (poor choice of word, 'dead' -- another sign of getting closer to oxygen retirement!).

Another clear sign of being old... my children are serving as a surrogate conscience to most of my Dad-isms. It's not unusual, for example, for my 9 year-old daughter to come out with a comment like, 'Dad, that was sooo inappropriate!' What's worse is she is absolutely correct! Most of the jokes I make nowadays are lame and secondhand. And when I do say something hilarious, it's liable to have crossed the thin grey line of appropriateness.

Which brings me back to the wristwatch. I blame that piece of technology for all my troubles! If only I hadn't taken such an interest in the arrival of digital watches back in my Sydney high school. If only I hadn't accumulated an excessive array of time pieces in my life so far. If only the end of Daylight Saving time last month didn't remind me how quickly time flies.

If only... I was less conscious of my diminishing youthfulness.

Well, with the imminent removal of my wristwatch, I will have two excuses for the onset of forgetfulness -- one will be the absence of a timepiece... the other will be... ummm, oh, that's right, memory loss from early senility. Now where did I put those teeth...