As you grow older, your body turns into a strident lady, ever grumbling and fault-finding. One of those ladies with long aquiline noses (like the beak of a bird) who's voices rebound in empty corridors and staircases. They like the china on the table, placed exactly like it ought to be, even if the food is as bland, vitaminated, spinached and carrotted.
My stomach spoke up today, growled and grunted. Of course my stomach has been speaking for days now, but I never quite understood what it said. The language is familiar but the dialect is so unfathomable and the words are like that of two Cockneys discussing football. Every now and then you hear words like Liverpool or Arsenal and goal but the rest of it makes you feel inane. My stomach speaks Cockney, so I choose to ignore it.
Its the stomach today, but I have a feeling some day my body will feel like a committee. Or a union, that will strike work on me and ask for a pay increase, perhaps blame me for the recession or inflation. My liver, my intestine, may be even my knees, they have this sinister look about them, like the sooty proletariat are wont to have. They trust nothing, not even my empty promises and supplicatory remarks. The way its going, I'll have to call it a sick unit, and seek a bailout.
How my body detaches itself from me as I grow older. It just becomes a different human being. A very difficult old lady (I repeat myself), so different from me. Sometimes when I scold it I feel sad and guilty. I might have hurt its feelings. At other times, I just lose it.