We all suffer from foibles or tics or, if you wish to be pc, oddities pertinent only to us: mine is an obsession with age. It’s not my fault. My mother had it – at her funeral there was a gasp of surprise from the congregation when it was read out that she was 89 rather than the admitted 83!
Naturally, modern living does not subscribe to that – at least no longer. When I first registered for a Barclay Card … yes, all right, it was a very long time ago … I altered my age from a xxx1 to a xxx5. It took forever to sort out when everyone began demanding proof of age, I nearly landed up in clink.
I wrote about it several times: This is from Age and the Antique Sideboard which lampoons just that:
Buzzed by the very nosy bee
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