It came back to me

Image via Wikipedia I'd like to say my memories came back in a dramatic fashion, that there was a flash of light and small harps played around me. But it was not so. Instead, I checked the calendar yesterday afternoon, and realised that my memories of being a young man were from 2010. I also realised it was still 2010. Piecing together these two facts, I realised that I had aged rapidly, and remembered everything.
 But the problems aren't over yet. My memories of youth restored, I find it easier to move in my arthritic body, but the shackles of age still bind me. Worse, I'm still trapped within the confines of the hellish old folks home, to be poked, prodded, experimented on and - worst of all - fed pea soup. But I see a chance to escape - tomorrow, we're being taken on an exciting trip to the wool museum. Hopefully, amongst the exhibits and displays of scarves, by the bobbly hats and the terrible Christmas jumpers, I will be able to escape. Being a OAP, I'm mostly made of wool already, so I should be able to blend into my surroundings easily enough. Armed with two stale rolls, a knitting needle and a length of wool (Yes, I'm taking my own wool to the wool museum. I'm old.) I shall fashion weapons and escape. Then I'll come back to this place, and end the nightmare once and for all.

Life continues in the home.

Well young 'uns, I've settled into life at the home now. Me an' Max like to while away the afternoons with quiz shows, and after a thoroughly boiled dinner, we like to exchange anecdotes with the other residents. We've taken up two pastimes reserved for the elderly as well: making slightly racist statements to anyone we meet, and failing to understand how our statements can be interpreted as racist. Max has really gotten into the whole thing, talking loudly and slowly to anyone who looks foreign, even if they speak better English than him. Still, something is bothering me, something I forgot. Something about... long ago.
 Still, must go. Someone's niece is coming to play the piano for us, and there's Bingo in the evening. It's all go, and I certainly don't wish I was dead.
 Must remember...

Elderly men in baths. There, that got your attention

The shackles were beginning to hurt my arms. Shackles should be tight, I suppose, but these were a little too tight, pulling my arms out at the sockets. Then again, I was suspended off the ground by chains, so I don't know what I was expecting. Opposite me, a demonstration of the fate that awaited me, a fate worse than death. Old age.
 Max, seated in a large bath - the sort you can imagine wealthy Victorians preparing in front of a large fire - watched me with an expression of wrinkled confusion. The tortures of this place achieved one aim, the premature aging of the innocent. While Max had been a sprightly youth not one week ago, he now resembled an elderly raisin. His shriveled countenance watched me, possibly hoping I was secretly a game of Countdown or episode of Diagnosis: Murder. But I was neither of these things. In fact, I was a man, about to be subjected to the horrors of old age while I was still in my prime. I was not a Judge Dredd Villain, I was a mostly innocent man!
 In front of me, the sinister man who had lead my capture earlier. Something about his attitude, the authority he commanded, and the colossal badge on his jacket suggested to me that he was in charge of this facility. But for now, he was content - having gloated at me a while - to leave me with Max while he prepared the aging machine.

The wrong sort of Bath

 "Max!" I cried out, hoping to stir him from his incontinence confusion. "MAX!"
 "What? Are you on my lawn? Oh, wait... I remember you... So long ago. We were... young women together?"
 "Close enough! What happened to you?"
 "Not so bad..." He replied sleepily, "Regular pills, TV, and the sponge bathes are nice. Look - I scraped the dry skin off my chest, and with some hairs, I've made a caterpillar."
 Max was right. Moulded from bluey-grey dead skin like a child would mould play-do was a small caterpillar shape. Inserted in the head were two grey head-hairs, resembling some sort of antenna. I pondered whether caterpillars actually had such antenna, but decided to ignore the subject. Dismissing what might have been Max's most disturbing creation, I continued:
 "Very nice. But how can we get out of here?"

Ominously, the door began to open.

Musings on time and space. Mainly just time.

Chronologically arranged, with their front covers on display, the box-sets for all 6 seasons and the film of Sex and the City prove a powerful visual demonstration of the inability of man (and woman) to fight the aging process...

 If one were, in time, to travel through space, one would need to practise good oral hygiene. Of course, this could be accomplished through the use of toothpaste and brush. The other day, I answered the a question that had bothered me for several minutes: "Does toothpaste go off?" The answer, yes!
 So, if you should find a tube of several year old toothpaste in a box, please don't use it. It will taste bad, and probably melt your teeth. That can happen, you know...