So today, Tony’s having a good old moan about ageing …..
NO! I am not ageing.
I was travelling on the Central Tube line towards Holborn when I heard a voice:
“Would you like my seat, Sir?”
Looking around, I spotted a smartly dressed schoolgirl, perhaps fourteen years old, standing up and smiling at me. I returned the gesture and then the truth dawned on me. She was offering her seat to me! The humiliation was total. I accepted her offer because I have been feeling a little tired of late: Brexit is wearing me out.
But did she not realise that I am one of the world’s great lovers and a danger to all women? Apparently not. To make matters worse, when we reached Chancery Lane Station I tried to stand up and my knee locked and I had to be helped off the tube.
The picture below shows Judy (my wife, when I last checked) and Henry (aged 6 and a half) our grandson, on Easter Monday.
He stayed with us recently and managed to destroy my self-confidence. Firstly, he gave me a half-hour lesson on how my computer works and then we played a game. We took my glass full of loose change which totalled £17,08p. We divided it into piles of same denomination coins (£2, £1, 50p and so on) and Henry was told he could select one from each pile. When he left my study holding £15,18p of my money, I was exhausted having been well and truly beaten!
Time For A Medical
The letter looked a little formal and so I read it, carefully. It was from my doctor. It said that now I was aged between 72 – 74, I was due for a full medical. There was a form for me to go to the hospital and have a blood test and then I should book an appointment at the surgery to see the nurse for weight and blood pressure checks and that was just the start.
I must be the only patient using the NHS who doesn’t want to see a doctor. What will happen? Take weight. We have speaking scales at home. I stood on them recently and the voice said, “one at a time, please”. My blood pressure? I am a Conservative voter (one of the remaining few): I am boiling with anger at Theresa May and the lame-duck Cabinet she is dominating. The ether will explode out of the nurse’s machinery. I am awaiting the reminder.
My brother-in-law (decent man) has, thank goodness, recovered from prostate cancer. Not pleasant treatment but he is in awe of the NHS. He told me that his consultant told him that the best antidote to the dreaded illness is an active sex-life.
If I am forced to go to the surgery and see the nurse, that should go down well.
“Have you any other medical needs, Mr Drury?”
“Well, since you ask, I understand an antidote to…”
A Man At His Peak!
Are there any positive aspects of being an OAP? Very few. But I have my plan. A recent article in ‘The Times’ suggested that men peak at around seventy-seven years of age. I am seventy-two so I reckon I have five years to achieve the following:
- To become a best-selling author.
I had an email the other day from a pal in the City. It read: ‘Tone, I’m glad I have almost finished reading your novel.’
- To see the Conservatives win the June 2022 General Election.
Please do not tell the nurse at the surgery I have said that. She’ll section me.
- To complete my next novella:
‘The Westminster Gravy Train’, which will lay bare the depth of corruption and dishonesty in the House of Commons.
- To understand my wife.
We’ve only been married for fifty years: give me a chance.
Now, time for a brownie point. I walk five miles every day. Bet you the nurse says I am overdoing it.