I'm getting old. I was walking across Tower Bridge. You know it? It goes across the Thames. In London. England. Sheesh. From a distance, the bit you walk across, the bottom bit, looks flat, doesn’t it? But even when it isn’t open for boats, there’s a gradient. It’s about two degrees. Or one and a half. I’d never noticed it before but lately, I’ve found myself struggling to reach the halfway point (or summit as I now call it). And even more lately, I’ve been getting shin splints on the way down the other side.
I’m significantly younger than my dear OLD friend Simon who revealed last week that he now has to lift his face back to shave properly. But I’ve been doing that for three years already.
I enquired last week at the dentist about teeth-whitening. The dentist made a joke about how I might like to think about hair-darkening first.
It’s only a matter of time before I buy a pair of nose-hair clippers. Doing it with nail scissors is fraught with risk.
I no longer need a good night’s sleep which is lucky because my bladder can no longer get all the way through the night without insisting on a little trip to the bathroom.
I prefer the old-format Antiques Roadshow to the new one.
I prefer any Antiques Roadshow to 24.
I shout at my television.
I shout at my computer.
I have become resigned to England being disappointing in the Six Nations.
I find cold calls from people trying to sell me wills and internet services and time-share holidays annoying. Everyone does but, now that I’m getting old, I don’t just shrug it off and move on. I spend a large part of a Saturday trying to track down not only which company called me but where they got my details from. I then phone that company and get them to promise to amend their privacy codes. I then research umbrella organisations devoted to stopping cold calls. And I phone them and get my name on their list. But then, when they ask for my phone number, I refuse to give it because I never give out personal details because I don’t want to get any cold calls.
All this when I could be out jogging. Or swimming. Or cycling. Or all three because the other thing about getting old is that I keep meaning to do a triathlon.
And if I bloody did that, then I’d probably be able to conquer the one-degree incline on Tower Bridge without the need for crampons.