17 years to go and then I’m toast

PAV’S PATCH:

ANOTHER nail was hammered into my coffin on Monday. I reached 53, which means I have only another 17 years left if I last my allotted three score years and 10. Comforting thought.

Actually, as I await the arrival of my pension book (will such things exist in 2022?) I’ve noticed one or two changes about myself since my last birthday.

First of all, I’ve begun to play a new parlour game called “Hunt the Specs”. The rules are simple — I take off my glasses to get changed, wash my face or whatever, and then spend 15 minutes looking for them, hoping that I won’t sit or step on them.

You see, I’m very short-sighted — I’m sure it stems from years of working on computers the size of television sets — and I can’t see the damn things once I’ve taken them off. Usually, I put them on my desk, but every so often I just set them down on the nearest surface and by the time I’ve put on my jumper I’ve totally forgotten.

The other day I made a plate of toast and put it on the settee while I sorted out a DVD. I then sat down and began to wonder where my food was. I was, of course, sitting on it. Anyway, following Tameside Council’s motto of “Love food, hate waste” I ate it anyway. The bit of denim fluff only added to the flavour.

But other things get to me, now I’m becoming long in the tooth. As someone who has passed his half-century I qualify for various sessions run by my local authority but they always advertise them with pictures of silver-haired grannies. However, I’m over 50, not over 75.

And then there’s the fact that I haven’t changed but everyone else has. I was convinced a woman I know is about 82 — I mean she has grandchildren as old my younger son — yet the other day I heard her talking about her love of Roxy Music.

Shouldn’t she be interested in Max Bygraves or Donald Peers? Surely Roxy Music is for young (well, ish) women?

What really worries me is that when the day comes that I attempt to pick up the shattered threads of my love life, will I have to forego the bodacious babes and head to grab a granny night?

It reminds me of the story of the 40-plus woman who decided to streak through the streets. “What was she wearing?” one man asked. “I don’t know,” his friend replied, “but whatever it was, it needed ironing.”

And they talk about many happy returns of the day.