Sunset in February, Perth. MM

When Monkey and Bear were very small and they did something silly, like stick Lego up their nose or eat a crayon, I would say to them, “What a silly moo”. I don’t think if I called them that now, it would be taken so well, but back then, along with happy cream (moisturiser mixed with glitter), it did the trick.

Others say “silly sausage”. I know a Sausage, so I have to be careful when I say that or I might get a smack. Although shaking orange juice over chips was a pretty silly thing to do, Sausage. Pretty funny also. And then there’s “silly billy”, though I always felt sorry for all the Billies out there.

Next week is a bit of a milestone for me. I’m turning 40. There, I said it. I’ve been in a bit of denial, which is a bit silly since I don’t have a lot of say in it. It just is. So why, when I am leaving my thirties behind, have I been such a silly moo lately? Take this morning. I was making popcorn for the Fab Four before school. I put in a couple of kernels to test the oil, as you do, when one of them popped, as popcorn tends to do. The silly thing was that it frightened me. And I threw the cup of kernels I was about to tip into the pan up in the air, and all over the floor. Good one.

Earlier this week I answered the stapler instead of the phone, tried to open the automatic doors with my car remote, tried to write with a screwdriver and used my PIN to get into work. I’m not counting the times I walked into things or tripped over.

So, I am, at nearly 40, a big Silly Moo. Please tell me that you are too.




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