You can’t fight death, sickness, ageing and life’s various indignities, but you can play very loud rock’n’roll
Every morning my older daughter calls from London. “What you doing today?” Erm… she’s most solicitous. She’s really checking in to check that I’m not checking out – that I haven’t woken up dead or had a stroke or a dizzy spell or plunged down some stairs or otherwise conked out. That I’m still above ground and that the manifold pills I’m compelled to take to prevent extinction, continue to kick in. “So what are you up to today?”
Erm… doing? Up to? That’s a little too chirpy. Active. Aspirational. I’m 79. I’ve been fortunate: I’m still here, a lucky boomer with privilege and a triple-lock pension. A war baby with free orange juice, free milk and a free education for life. They paid me. I even passed the 11-plus. It’s been all right. It’s been more than all right. Then it wasn’t. My wife, Jill, died. Cancer in a time of plague.
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