Doctored

Thank you Mimi, for taking this shot of your dad at the grand old age of 44.
All the stops were pulled there, mono treatment and slimming sliver of strong daylight.

Just so that I have at least one other shot for them to remember me by, one that is not my passport photograph for the next ten years, one that doesn't scream "rubicund sweaty fat fuck who's struggling to catch his breath after sprinting to the parking meter and who's hating every second spent in this little islet of French territory - with all the red tape and civil servitude that in implies - in the heart of Dublin 4"

Thank you Mimi.


My own Dad died when he was 44.
As I was 21 at the time, I didn't really know what it meant. People around me kept telling us what a dreadfully young age that was.
They were right.
They were also wrong.
44 is the onset of decrepitude.