Middle-age begins the brush with grim reaper

PAV’s Patch: IT’S a wonderful thing, middle-age. I’m sure I must already have written about my mid-life crisis — waking up one morning to realise more than half my life was gone and the time no longer remained to do all those things I had been putting off for years.

Anyway, it’s recently become apparent to me that I’ve entered a new phase of life.

I can remember all the 18th and 21st birthday parties I attended and then the engagement bashes and wedding receptions.

The odd silver wedding has trotted along but it seems I’ve now entered funeral time.

More and more funerals are cropping up and some of them are for my contemporaries. One of my friends lost his wife a couple of weeks ago and while I’d love to say it happened in a betting shop and he won her back the next day, the poor woman died.

Rather than feeling sorry for myself my thoughts should be with my friend and his daughter.

But it gets better — or is that worse?

The other night I received a phone call from another friend, who said he was putting his affairs in order and would like me to give the eulogy at his funeral, whenever that might be.

I have to admit that for a moment his request put me on the back foot. What do you say to an apparently fit although elderly person who asks you to speak at their funeral?

Well in my case, I listened dumbfounded. Then he told me that I would be well recompensed so what could I do but accept graciously? Wonder how much I’ll get?

But something even worse has happened to me. My younger son, who is approaching his 12th birthday, beat me in a race the other week.

Outside the AMC Cinema off Deansgate, Manchester, is a long flight of stairs.

In the past I’ve always triumphed over number-two son in a race to the top, but no longer.

It all makes me question what the point of my life is now.

I remember my Uncle Jim telling me about the fun he had with his eldest son, who became an accomplished non-league footballer.

He told me: “Once he began to get better than me I used to foul him, but then he used to run crying to his mother who would make my life hell. And then I couldn’t catch him any longer.”

All I’m going to say is that youth is a precious gift totally wasted on the young.