Thursday evening and I’m sweating a bit. it’s muggy. We had rain and thunderstorms earlier. Marvellous. My garden looked likes a fucking desert. I’d better write something, my coffee is going cold. 

Ageing, right? Bloody ageing. It’s shite. So many things happen that we can do nothing about. 

Like the creaks and moans. I stand up from my armchair. It goes like this: Argghhh! Or ooohhh! Every damn time. It’s not for effect. I have no choice. It happens. Whether I like it or not. I sound like a Victorian street organ.

Then there’s working. I don’t want to be working. I’m sixty one and ready to retire. No chance of quitting. Mortgage to pay. Bills to pay. I hate that Bill bastard. 

Moving on, I’m knackered. All the time. That’s another thing. I have to have old man naps. I don’t sleep right at night. Meaning I’m like a zombie in the day. Sit me in the armchair at 7pm? Off I go. Nap time. Like a proper old man. 

One more. Everything sags, droops and doesn’t work right. But, the fat still turns up. Round my middle. And my arse. Why? I’m getting old. My body is in decline. Yet the lard turns up, spreading itself around all over the place. It does my head in. 

So, ageing. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s fun. It is fuck. It might be if you can retire. take it easy. But I’m not there. And won’t be for a few years yet. 

The younger folk I work with don’t get my sense of humour. Theirs is dead clever. High-minded stuff. Me? I crack fart jokes. Lark about with a tea cosy on my head. Simple stuff like that. Spike Milligan and Tommy Cooper. Total legends. Funny, laugh out loud, fall about funny. The young un’s don’t get it. They’d want to cancel my comedy heroes.

Right, I’d better stop now. My eyes are sagging (like everything else on my body). Might have a nap. Like a proper old man.