How time can turn you into a tit

Last time we were down the park I wanted to do a cartwheel.

And what’s wrong with that?

Nothing, except I am 36, the park was packed and I didn’t care one jot that my friend filmed it.

 

Plus, my cartwheel was a bit naff: it was an arms crooked, knees bent, kinda cartwheel. The sort that would make a gym teacher grimace.

 

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It clearly shows I still need to grow up.

Or get a life.

Either way, I know my cartwheel days are over.

Still, it’s no matter. When I see my niece I’ll just have to borrow her skipping rope.

Growing up is far too boring.

Long live fun, laughter and dodgy cartwheels.

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