I am not old.

I don’t feel it.

I don’t act it.

I don’t think it.

Some say, I don’t look it. But they’re just being nice.

I am sixty. I use a walking stick.

Which raises an interesting issue. At what age does one become old?

Is there an arbitrary age?

Everything else in life has an arbitrary age.

You have to go to school at 7.

You can leave school at 15.

You can smoke at 16, but you can’t buy cigarettes until 18.

You can’t vote until 18.

You can’t drink until you are 18.

You can’t drive until you are 18.

You are not criminally responsible until you are 18 (Latin America), but 10 in England.

You can’t have sex until you are 16.

You can’t get married until you are 18. (Which makes a mockery of sex only in marriage).

You retire at 60-something.

So at which age do you become arbitrarily old? Sixty, seventy, eighty… some point in between.

Kids today don’t understand the value of offal like tongue

The day before yesterday I was in the supermarket and saw tongues. I haven’t eaten tongue in years. I bought one. Hell, they are expensive now. Yesterday, I covered it in water added some black peppercorns and cloves and set it to simmer for a couple of hours. After peeling it, giving some tidbits to Lixo (he liked it) I made a sandwich of thinly sliced tongue and Dijon mustard. Instant nostalgia!

Kids today don’t know what tongue is, they have never experienced the delight of tongue. Does that signify ‘old’… when you begin to like tongue?

Maybe I am old, but I just don’t know it; I refuse to bow down before it, I refuse to cave in to the premise.

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and discover that my dotage has arrived; that I am old and feeble.

People ask me how I am each day. I always reply, “I’m out of bed, so the world is good.”

In the meantime, I will continue my innings, 60 – not out! Americans may not understand that, but then they don’t understand cricket either.