We grow old, we grow old

Some of us already wear the bottoms of our trousers rolled…

I am in shock this morning, having just found out that Michael Jackson is dead. It’s not that I’m sad that he’s dead – in fact the sooner he could get out of that crazy life the better for him, I imagine. But he’s always been there somehow, part of my outer, but living, atmosphere.  Like Madonna. And Prince.

It’s generational I suppose. Bob Marley and Elvis Presley were always dead (OK, I was six when the Bob died, and stuck somewhere between Danish and English, so I doubt there was room for his positive vibrations between my blond little plaits), and therefore already “legends” when I met them. And I do remember Princess Di dying, but that was Princess Di. This is Michael Jackson!

Maybe the upshot for him and his memory is that children being born or growing up now will be spared the sight of the once great becoming pathetic. Though given our often revolting tabloid culture, it’s probably the nasty stuff that will live on, and one day some boy band will do a stomach-turning version of Billie Jean which all the teenagers will love.

Getting old(er) doesn’t scare me. Actually it’s fascinating, like watching seasons change for the first time. But it is strange. Like Michael Jackson. Don’t forget to remember the good stuff.