You're Never Too Old...

A friend asked me what the highlights of my holiday were, and I felt obliged to think of something profound, cultured, or at least grown-up. When nothing came I admitted that the best bits were:

1. Leaping with gay abandon on a bouncy castle.
2. Swooshing down a water slide. Thrice.

And this week I've discovered another thing I'm not too old for:

3. Teething. Unless I'm such an Earth Mother that I'm having sympathy pains for The Boy, I do believe I have a wisdom tooth coming. I'd gnaw on a Bickipeg if I could shove it back far enough, and if they didn't smell of dog biscuits.

So now I'm wondering whether I might also be young enough for:

4. Those shoes that have wheels on the bottom.

And I'm also heartened to learn that the oldest first-time novelist was 101 when his book came out. George Dawson was born in 1898 in Texas, and didn't learn to read until he was 98. And he died a year after his book was published (by Random House) so he didn't even have to suffer from the dreaded second-book syndrome.