IF I WAS someone else, and I met me, I would hesitate to strike up a conversation.

I’m 71 and I’m afraid my sagging facial features give me a grim look which puts people off. 

I know this because of mirrors. Occasionally I am scared by a glimpse of a boring old man before I realise it’s me in a mirror. 

I try to compensate for my grumpy old appearance by acting cheery and young. 

Some compensation for being alive a long time is that I have memories similar to historical film footage. For example, when I was a child the milkman delivered our daily three pints by horse and cart! Our black and white telly had a screen not much bigger than a paperback, and it only had one channel. Trains were hauled by steam. Most motorists wanting to indicate an intention to turn had to make hand signals. There was no M3 to London and the express route from Winchester to Bournemouth meandered through Hursley, Ampfield and Romsey. 

Speedy Winchester bypass was a rare dual carriageway but it was still famous for summer queues at its traffic lights. When the Wessex Hotel (now “Mercure”) opened, it was considered daringly modern. The wealthy drove from miles around to dine amid its luxury and to feast on its cathedral outlook. 

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Although the war was over, Britain seemed less happy and less healthy than now. Smoke was everywhere and women, gay people and racial minorities were treated less fairly. 

I have always been unduly concerned with age. I was 25 when I detected my first wrinkle (just a slight crease in the forehead). Now past three score and ten years, I suppose I really am in the waiting room for death. Lots to do in the waiting room, though. Waiting implies inactivity but volunteering, part-time work and learning skills can make it pretty similar to not being in the waiting room.  

I once saw a shock item on TV which suggested that people in retirement homes think about their death every single day. Well I’m not even in a retirement home and I think about death just about every day, but that’s not morbid in the way the programme suggested. When you probably have just a few years left alive it is natural that you will think of your death when considering everything from savings strategy to planning the few remaining annual holidays that you can expect. Paris once? Edinburgh twice more? 

I always review my personal longevity forecast when an obituary features in a news bulletin. They always include the celebrity’s age. 

The main distinguishing feature of an increasing proportion of my friends these days is that they are either obese, ill or dead. 

In any pub or crowded space I often find myself checking if I am the oldest there. 

For many years now any event since about 1990 has seemed to me like just the other day. 

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Age is sapping my brain, and weak memory is becoming an embarrassment. When I made an eye appointment I forgot which optician it was and I had to ring round them all to ask. 

Deterioration is making steady progress on my body. I can still run upstairs but blue veins decorate my hairless legs and hair sprouts from my ears. 

Undimmed so far is my thirst for learning. I used to think I was enthusiastic for knowledge so that I would be better equipped to succeed or impress but, with little time remaining to succeed or impress, I realise that all along I just plain enjoyed learning. 

I’m hardly qualified to advise but if a young person asked for lifetime tips I’d say don’t lie or harm anyone if you can help it. I would add don’t drink much and don’t smoke. Save loads and don’t waste money on cars. Be adventurous but pay great attention to safety and health.