The media seem in total agreement that fifty is the new thirty. I'm not so sure, and I expect most thirty year olds agree with me. As evidence here's a sample of our conversations this bank holiday weekend – moments snatched between planning for our retirement, listing out all the people we know who have died and expressing a mutual horror of tattoos.
I doubt any thirty year olds had any of these conversations. Not last week, not this week, not ever.
First-up, we laid out our own town-planning utopia where houses are built that cater to people retiring (thus freeing up their houses to the market). Simple houses for people who want to downsize and release equity, located somewhere nice, perhaps by the sea, whilst retaining small comforts like a garden. I've no idea if this will take off but we did come up with a working name for it - a bungalow.
Later, I said to Anne that if she came home one evening and I wasn't in, she should probably search the main walking routes for my body. I've tripped at the top of not one stile but two, over the last week, falling from the top and landing with an almighty ground-shuddering thwack, which had ducks and geese flying for the hills and which Bobby deemed the best fun ever. Well, apart from horse poo, obviously.
Then, channelling my late granddad, and after a night spent tossing and turning with indigestion turned up to eleven on the Bisodol scale, I suggested I may be reaching the age where a curry of an evening is probably a bad idea. This is saying something when you consider I've had indigestion every day for the last thirty-two years.
Not to be outdone Anne spent several hours researching a website selling carbon-fibre underpants called Shreddies that claim to neutralise your farts. If you don't believe me Google them and, let's face it, if you're over fifty you know you want to. Knitted by nanas indeed.
On the plus side we managed a whole weekend without mentioning penile flaccidity or vaginal dryness...
I doubt any thirty year olds had any of these conversations. Not last week, not this week, not ever.
First-up, we laid out our own town-planning utopia where houses are built that cater to people retiring (thus freeing up their houses to the market). Simple houses for people who want to downsize and release equity, located somewhere nice, perhaps by the sea, whilst retaining small comforts like a garden. I've no idea if this will take off but we did come up with a working name for it - a bungalow.
Later, I said to Anne that if she came home one evening and I wasn't in, she should probably search the main walking routes for my body. I've tripped at the top of not one stile but two, over the last week, falling from the top and landing with an almighty ground-shuddering thwack, which had ducks and geese flying for the hills and which Bobby deemed the best fun ever. Well, apart from horse poo, obviously.
Then, channelling my late granddad, and after a night spent tossing and turning with indigestion turned up to eleven on the Bisodol scale, I suggested I may be reaching the age where a curry of an evening is probably a bad idea. This is saying something when you consider I've had indigestion every day for the last thirty-two years.
Not to be outdone Anne spent several hours researching a website selling carbon-fibre underpants called Shreddies that claim to neutralise your farts. If you don't believe me Google them and, let's face it, if you're over fifty you know you want to. Knitted by nanas indeed.
On the plus side we managed a whole weekend without mentioning penile flaccidity or vaginal dryness...
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