More pre-life crisis.

Regular visitors to this little glob of sputum in the gullet of life will perhaps have noted the long-running theme of ALBOWIEB, that of my pre-life crisis. It started off with verbal dysentery, which I learned to get (would you believe it) a little more on top of when I was president of the students' union in Bangor (big shout out to the staff there) - the pre-life crisis does exactly what it says on the tin, manifesting my neuroses about getting older and the pressures of modern life on young people.

Another distinct worry of getting older, which fully ranks alongside career, marriage and fulfillment is what I refer to as post-puberty. Even at 25, your body starts to fall apart, you turn into a wheezy git more prone to take the lift than stairs, bus than walk. You're eminently depressed by the thought that you reached a physical peak at 22. And worry at every point that your life is never going to be the same again, that's it downhill from here.

The only time that downhill is good is when you're cycling, everything else is an uphill struggle. Life constricts you on all sides - have you started a pension yet, are you doing the right savings, are you on the property ladder? Let's be honest here, I've not even found the property key to the property shed wherein lies the property ladder.

Even worse and slightly apocalyptically, hair begins to sprout out of odd places, bits of pudge get tacked on to your sides like bad pottery and odd growths, welts, scars and lumps start to appear. Forget that swine flu party nonsense, I'm thinking of organising a biopsy party. Not that much fun, but think of the goody bags.