From time to time, like most people, I contemplate Being Old.
A few weeks ago, I spotted the Perfect Old Lady.
She was driving an vintage Morris Traveller in cream with a red leather interior. Its woodwork and bodywork were immaculate.
She sat smiling and serene inside, a vision of cloudy white hair and scarlet lipstick: every wrinkle in place, neat little hands clasping the wheel, feminine and sweet.
In the rear seats of her car were two stylish tartan rugs and in the very back, a turntable.
'I want to be her!' I exclaimed inwardly, 'Yes, please, that's me in the future!'
I was delighted with my choice and carried on with the journey.
A while later that day while I was waiting at a bus stop, an Old Gentleman came up to me.
'I'm eighty-six', he told me while invading my personal space.
"Here's a joke forya. Woman goes into the doctor. "Flu", says the doctor. "No, I walked", said the woman. Ha, ha, ha! Here's another one forya!....' and so on, and so on, until the bus arrived and rescued me.
Ruefully, I realised that given my penchant for crap jokes, it is much more likely that I will grow old boring people with my sense of humour like the Old Gentleman, rather than impressing younger people with my style like the Perfect Old Lady.