Ages and stages

This is our boy. Now twelve and looking a bit cute with his untamed blondish hair.
He announced that he had a problem today — nothing bad he assured me, just that some girls had said their friend loves him . . . Suddenly the whole next stage of life for him was in front of me: love, longing, rejection, angst.
Luckily, Ezra is firmly into keeping fish, drawing and gardening at the moment and the girl/or, boy thing is not even a blip on his horizon. He is convinced he won't get married, has his house all planned out, and has decided to downgrade from a Jaguar to something a little smaller in order to be able to spend more on fish-keeping.

Of course the love thing can be fairly straight forward.
My cousin is married to the first man (boy) who asked her for a date at the age of sixteen when we went to the local cricket club disco. They are happy, have two wonderful children, superb house, did everything in the right order . . . others, such as myself, made a huge emotional messes for years and years until finally getting it right. I am however greatly relieved not to be married to my first 'love' — Luton town-supporting, moped-riding, depressive person with horrible domineering mother.
I can remember the total joy on my mothers face as I told her I had decided to get out of the relationship, even though we jointly owned a hideous, hand-painted Mini.

Oh, to be twelve again . . . actually I'm not sure if I would want to be, forty-nine seems OK, even though I told the (French) doctor the other day that I was eighty-nine; he remarked that I seemed in excellent shape for someone of that age . . .