No Country For Old Men

Last night I attended my first live concert in two years, saw a 72 year old legend Nick Lowe.

The age process is a double edged sword. I'm nobody's son now, just somebody's Dad. I'm now an expert at spilling drink and dropping food down my shirt, the varifocals are binned, replaced with a separate set of reading and distance glasses, random noises emanate from my body with unexpected ease and regularity, all outwith my control.

Pipe, slippers and Percy Pigs can wait, I wear old waistcoats, fitted shirts, 511's and 512's, t-shirts and hats, not quite a dedicated follower of fashion, a bit more Repair Shop than Love Island.

Recently I qualified for a travel card. Purchasing a ticket using a concession card raises more questions than answers. If the ticket office don't ask to see the card does that mean you look really old, a good excuse to become stroppy and take offence. The flip side is when they ask you to produce your card, my brain convinces me that I look much younger and they cannot believe one so young would have a concession card.

As the years pass I've become more patient and less confrontational. It doesn't bother me when I see a grown man with a crease in his jeans buy a t-shirt at a concert and change into it in the toilets, however, I will have to learn to stop behaving like Paddy Considine in "Dead Man's Shoes" every time I buy a ticket for the train.