LOOKS CAN BE RECEDING

'The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.' So said Lucille Ball.

However in my experience it doesn't pay to age well. 

You can eat the right foods, take regular exercise and do all the recommended things and they'll still say 'She looks young for her age - must have had Botox' or 'There's no way she could have a body like that without surgery'.

It used to be the case that these comments were reserved for celebrities who were desperately trying to keep their looks, but nowadays your friends and acquaintances can be the subject of these accusations.

Of course women are the worst. It's understandable I suppose since appearance matters so much to the fairer sex. 

I'm surprised that my wife succumbs to this though. After all, she knows perfectly well that my youthful appearance and George Clooney looks owe nothing whatsoever to the surgeon's knife.

CHICK CHAT

I found myself recently having a solitary pub lunch in London. Nothing too extravagant. Just good old bangers and mash in a large yorkshire pudding with peas and gravy.

As is usual for me in such situations, I was giving the food my full attention so no newspaper or phone to distract me.

I gradually became aware of the two women sitting to my left who were deeply engaged in a slightly overloud conversation. Of course it was impossible for me not to listen in. 

As I shovelled a forkfull of peas into my mouth I heard:

'Did you use to smoke pot?'

'Of course. Didn't you?'

'Oh yes - all the time.' 

Half a sausage later there was...

'...and the men were so attractive I was always jumping in and out of bed with somebody or other.'

'I was the same. The sex was very good.'

So I had fetched up sitting next to a couple of ex-junkie nymphomaniacs!

The thing I found most amusing was that their conversation also revealed that one of them was 81 and the other 78. Grannies aren't what they used to be.

  

OH DEAR DIARY...

I've just been checking my diary and I may have a problem. I expect you're fully aware of the joys of having an electronic diary. The big advantage is when you have a regular recurring event and can just enter it once with the instruction to repeat the event every week or month or year.

I well remember when I used to have a traditional diary and spent ages writing in my weekly events fifty two times. Now I just tap it in and say repeat every week and there it is stretching off to infinity.

It's brilliant for birthdays too especially when I know the year my friend or relative was born because it not only tells me the date but also their age. As a result I shall have no excuse now for missing my wife's 150th birthday. The main problem will be finding a 150th card in the shops.

I have made no secret of the fact that I intend to live until at least 100. This gives me a problem though. I shall obviously be thrilled to recieve the Queen's (or King's) telegram. The problem is that I may be out when it is delivered because unfortunately, my diary informs me that I shall be playing badminton that morning.

THE DREAM TEAM

Today is my 65th birthday and last night I held a celebratory dinner in my own honour. There were 16 of us and we were in a private dining room in one of my favourite restaurants.

I had prepared a short speech despite my family's groans ('Oh no not another speech') and decided to deliver it after the main course before the wine had reached tsunami proportions.

The theme of my little chat was about the importance, having achieved the grand old age of 65, of having a good team behind you and in my case, I was looking at them. Between them, my friends and family present at the dinner are able to provide all of the useful support services I might need. The guests included

A Cordon Bleu chef to satisfy the inner man.

An Accountant to nurture my newly acquired pension.

A magistrate to get me off with a caution when I am hauled up for driving the wrong way up the motorway.

A Pharmacist to advise me how best to use my free medicine prescriptions.

A sports coach to keep me fit.

A weather expert to ensure my life's autumn days are sunny.

An advisor for vehicles for the disabled should my fitness expert let me down.

A home entertainment advisor who boasts one of the largest DVD collections in the area.

A brilliant teacher (you're never too old to learn) and fashion advisor who keeps me looking trendy.

A bodyguard - who is an army sergeant (don't mess with me).

A fully qualified life coach - sadly too late for a mid-life crisis.

A home improvements expert.

A marketing manager to help me publish my book.

A master stonemason who will be able to make me a bespoke gravestone of the finest quality when my luck runs out.

The love in my life and the love of my life who also serves as the other half of my brain (I lack the common sense gene).

All in all, the dream team.

AIMING TO PLEASE

I was amused by a line in 'Outnumbered' recently, when long-suffering Mum Sue came downstairs sporting a pair of rubber gloves having been cleaning the toilets. She complained to anyone who would listen that there appeared to have been a urine tsunami in the toilet and could the male members of the household please take better care with their aim.

To be honest they haven't got a leg to stand on since, none of them having reached their fifties, their *ahem 'equipment' would be fully functional and accurate. Unlike mine.

You see, with age comes a lessening of pressure like a garden hose which is so feeble that you need to stand much closer to the flowers if they are to get remotely wet.

I am always embarrassed by a particular public toilet in a Bristol shopping centre which has targets painted in each urinal position. They are about waist height and the chances of my weakly wee stream getting anywhere near the mark are nil.

My poor wife often finds that the tsunami has struck in our house too. I have tried to explain that it's very difficult when you adopt a careful position with your man's bits above the bowl so as to avoid dripping onto your toes, pointing your third leg carefully at the middle of the loo and having checked that all is set, letting loose only to find that the stream which emerges adopts the shape of a divining rod and goes to left and right missing the toilet completely. Quickly adjusting the aim to bring the right-hand stream back into line only means that the left-hand stream is now missing the mark by about a metre.

I suppose I could always forego my macho stance and sit on the loo but this is difficult when you have 'morning wood' - then again, that's a whole different problem.

This reminds me of the old joke:

A Harrow man and an Eton man are at the urinal. They finish and zip up. The Harrow man proceeds to the sink to wash his hands, while the Eton man immediately makes for the exit.

The Harrow man says, "At Harrow they teach us to wash our hands after we urinate."

The Eton man replies, "At Eton they teach us not to piss on our hands."