I grow old. . . I grow old. . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
All downhill from here innit. Time to release that difficult spoken-word album, trade the missus in for a set of golf clubs, agonise over my pension and think about good schools and salvaging what’s left of my life in the ‘burbs. I am, of course, off to the bar. It’s going to be an afternoon of Hemmingwayesque proportions. Thankfully, I already have his beard.