My eightieth birthday was a couple of months ago. Since then I have discovered that as soon as they hear this, everyone who regarded me just as "in her seventies" and left me to get on with it now treats me as though I am a fragile old lady, physically and mentally.
Now I am not complaining about having my shopping carried, my furniture moved around, or being offered lifts (I don't have a car) but inside I don't feel any different to how I did at fifty, forty, even thirty (maybe a bit older than twenty.) My thoughts are still clear, I can make my own decisions, large and small, can still use basic common sense to avoid following political, medical and dietary crazes or financially ruinous ventures, can still appreciate a handsome charming man while not falling for his blarney, and I still find some things very funny.
I'm no' deid yet!
Saving running away money - 'leaving fund'
What loutish behaviour - Boris manspreading
I'm uglier than yesterday - I'm aghast