That I am really a granny trapped in a 20 year-old's body.
Actually, the title of this post is misleading - it is not a new thought which has just recently drawn me to this conclusion, but rather a sneaking suspicion that's been brewing for a good long while.
It doesn't bother me too much: floral prints, knitted cardigans, fresh flowers everywhere (favourites) and a liberal smattering of books seems like a fairly idyllic existence if I'm honest. Perfection itself, surely, cannot be far from a well-dunked digestive in a large-mugged brew?
My premature grannyhood seems, in fact, to have been universally accepted - and indeed embraced - by my friends and housemates, with teapots and general knitted goods being common objects left scattered in my wake.
Here's to the floral prints and general chintziness that make up my little existence.
