Eh? What?

It's official.  I am getting increasingly old and knackered. To imagine otherwise would be delusional, it's happening to us all. However, there's a difference between blissfully ignoring the ageing process and having it confirmed by a doctor possibly young enough to be one's daughter (always assuming I made a very early start on the reproductive process).

The casus belli of my latest attack on Old Father Time was, I thought, the ceaseless evening roadworks on the A34; which lies just one mile to the south of our home. Lying in bed, readying myself for sleep, I found my slumber delayed by the steady grind of a heavy roller flattening newly laid tarmac in what I believed to be remedial work to the pock marked surface that is our closest arterial route. Night after night this irksome nuisance hummed in the distance, consoling me only with the thought that it may be a terribly nice surface to take the bike onto, save for the cars and trucks flying by at close quarters at 70 mph.

I don't get out much these days, my commute to work was reduced to 14 stairs and a 30 foot hallway back in April, so when I did finally venture forth to the A34, I expected to drive along a velveteen smooth roadway flatter than the Bonneville Salt Flats. What I discovered instead, was the un-remediated asphalt on which I had driven many times before, vibrating through the steering wheel as my car lumbered over its worn and battered surface. At the time I thought little of it, but hearing the sound of the underachieving roller again at the end of the day, I was compelled to consider that perhaps all was not as it seemed.

It was upon hearing the roadworks closer to home in the middle of the day that I determined to investigate. The strident grumble of the heavy machinery saw me flip off my work slippers and don my sandals* for a quick wander to the source of the industry. As I opened the door, the sound vanished.  I returned to my desk; the rumble resumed. I opened the door; it ceased. Either a prankster was silencing the roller as I opened my door or I was hearing things; or not, as the case may be.

The human brain is a remarkable piece of kit. When our hand rests on something hot, the reflex to pull away is almost instant. A cut or scrape is felt immediately with our brain delivering a resulting sense of pain through our nervous system. In the inner ear, hair cells reside in the cochlea and send impulses to the brain for it to interpret sound. When something is awry and the hair cells don't send a signal to our grey matter for interpretation, it decides to check out what's going on and sends its own signal back, this signal is commonly known as tinnitus, and frankly, I would rather my brain didn't bother - the silence would be infinitely preferable.

A short period of research on the interweb revealed that there was little that I could do to stop the noise. I have to confess that I greet most treatment suggestions that begin with the words "to help you achieve a positive state of mind" with a healthy degree of skepticism; even if it is the gospel according to the NHS. Other options proposed included sound therapy to fill the silence with neutral, often repetitive sounds to distract you from the sound of tinnitus. I have a 12 year-old daughter who is relentless in her pursuit of a puppy. Repetitive sounds I can do without - they're hardly a welcome distraction. An alternative was to have the radio or television on, or to listen to natural relaxing sounds. When I experience it most, at the point of trying to sleep, I don't want to watch TV or listen to the radio, the only thing I want to do is generate a natural sound, that of my snoring, albeit, Mrs. Brown will be the first to tell you that that particular noise is not remotely relaxing.

As a consequence, I paid a visit to my GP. He was an older gent and nodded sympathetically as he listened to me through his ear horn. "Well", he hollered at me. "Either you're schizophrenic, or your hearing things. Sometimes, there's no difference," he chortled. "I can't tell!".  

I was hoping he was a better doctor than a comedian. "Of course," he added. "There's bugger all we can do for you." Confirming to me instantly that he might be better suited to a career in stand-up. In turn, however, he referred me to the local audiology department, whereupon I met the adolescent medic to whom I referred in my opening stanza.

Our meeting began with a surreal debate about my age. The hospital, it would seem, had recorded my date of birth to coincide with my 8th birthday. I could read in her face, instantly, that she considered me not to be weathering well. I reconciled this obviously slight to 36 year-olds across the country by considering the further cause of her distress, that before her might be sitting "the wrong patient". The tabloid press in the UK is quick to seize upon stories of healthy limbs being amputated or the removal of the functioning lung as a result of being presented with dodgy data. I worried momentarily that her investigation might be a little more invasive than I had expected, but we quickly established that although her information lacked integrity, I was still there for a routine hearing check.

Happily I was not advised to adopt aural therapies, instead, she confirmed the worst; that I am suffering what is otherwise known to millions across the planet as hearing loss. "What's that you say?"
  "Hearing loss dear. You're going deaf".

The great news is that I've got at least five to ten years before I'll require the installation of an hearing aid. The decline in auditory capability she says, is simply part of the aging process. Yep, she was young, and in the young, the aging process is something that's greeted with enthusiasm. First it gets them to a driver's license, then to an off-license before graduating to a marriage license; but not necessarily in that order.  

An alternative view, once one has achieved those milestones, is to look at life through the lens of certification - birth certificate, marriage certificate and... let's not go there.  

Instead, let us content ourselves that there is a decline over which we can grumble. After all, there's much worse in this world than the gradual deterioration of one's hearing. Personally, I will content myself in the knowledge that when Pippa next asks us to get a dog, I can respond, with the sincerest legitimacy, that I didn't quite hear what she said.


* For the record, I continue to cling to youth by sporting bare feet beneath my sandals.

It's not just on the pitch he doesn't work...

Having been a tad critical of the boy Balotelli in my recent letter to the lad, I was a touched surprised to find a response sitting on my doorstep a few days ago.

I needn't have been.  The chap's so lazy that he failed to:

     a) Use my address
     b) Add a date
     c) Personalise the salutation
     d) Write the letter himself

Presumably the club didn't want to wake him from his nap, or perhaps, as he so frequently does during a game, he was hiding.

Balotelli's fearsome fungi

Mario Balotelli

c/o Liverpool Football Club
Anfield Road
Liverpool L4 OTH

1 October 2014

Dear Mario

I’m sure you can appreciate that, as a Liverpool fan, I was somewhat disappointed that the team failed to gain a point against Basle tonight in the Champions’ League.

Bitter pill as that was to swallow however, that is not the reason for my note; what follows has more to do with concerns for your health.

I noted, during the course of this evening’s game, that you appear to have a growth atop your head which isn’t perhaps entirely natural.

I have done some considerable research on this phenomenon and can only conclude that you have developed a nasty fungal infection leading to the ivory colouring coursing the centre of your bonce.

Further investigation has revealed that your disfigurement has probably emerge as a result of immobility; borne of your natural tendency to remain stationary during the course of a football match.  There are some nasty airborne infections one can acquire when stood motionless in the open air for prolonged periods and I would hazard that you are more prone than others to be affected given your regular stasis.

In the interest of your wellbeing, I have consulted with a number of experts in the field and, universally, they are of the opinion that if you moved during the course of a game you would not only avoid the fungi finding refuge on your noodle, but you might also contribute to the team’s performance; the corollary of which might be to influence a result that is somewhat more positive than the one I witnessed tonight.

I presume that movement is not a natural state for you and that you would perhaps benefit from some guidance on how best to do this.  May I suggest that you request recordings of some of last year’s games where you can review the work of Luis Suarez, who will, l assure you, provide you with a master class in how to perform on a football pitch.  Do however stop short of adopting his more carnivorous instincts, you’re likely to develop a gastric complaint if you embrace all of his tendencies.

You may note that many of your teammates are a little less static than you and also, that none of them have been similarly afflicted.  May I propose that you follow their lead, move about a bit and see what unfolds?  I suspect that not only will you manage to shed the fungus, but you may also find yourself part of a team capable of delivering more favourable results.

For the sake of my health, I beg you to do this.  The increases to my blood pressure that your lack of effort engenders is of considerable concern to my nearest and dearest.

Yours sincerely

Craig Brown
GOM in Training

Almost... but not quite

"Amazing", Jamie said, as we watched Rory McIlroy tee off on the first hole on the third day of The Open Championship whilst having breakfast this morning.  

A short flutter of joy coursed through me as I considered that, finally, he was showing some appreciation for sport.  Then he continued...

"We have managed to invent a game even more boring than cricket."

<Sigh>

Evolving football knowledge

As a follow-up to Jamie's attempt to build a world eleven, we had a go today at naming 10 football teams.  It was a struggle to eight, then he considered the World Cup.  No problem with his geography...

Living vicariously

I wanted to be a professional footballer.  As a teenager, I poured my heart and soul into the sport, loving (almost) every minute of it and dreamt of representing my country and playing Premier League football.

Six days a week were spent training or playing, with the pre-game Friday the only day that didn’t see me in a pair of boots or trainers.  Admittedly, those Friday nights would often find me in Wellington’s Bond Street Inn with my mates, not necessarily the perfect preparation for a match, but such was my youth and fitness that I managed to ride through the perils.  Those nights are perhaps an indication of why I didn’t quite make it in the game, but nevertheless, it was a dream I harboured.

Not realising your dreams, or at least acknowledging the fact, can sometimes be a difficult experience; often for someone else.  On the 26 May 1999, Manchester United recorded their historic treble of winning the Champions League, Premier League and the FA Cup in the same season.  That same day, a much bigger event in my life occurred, the arrival of one James John Brown.  3lb 6oz of fighting little man who I thought was so keen to catch the football that he arrived six weeks early.  I determined there and then, that my ambition to be a footballing legend would transfer to the tiny bundle in my arms, who I would support, cajole and encourage into a future England team.

Fast forward 15 years and we are on the cusp of the World Cup, an event I desperately wanted to attend, not as a spectator, but as a player (though I’m still clinging to the dream of visiting the World Cup as the former).  The TV and radio are tuned to broadcast the games, the matches I can’t see live are set to record and there’s a bottle or two of Brahma in the fridge as my tilt towards being in Brazil.  I’m savouring the build-up, entering match predictions and a fantasy league team on SuperBru, placing my outside bet on the Belgians at Ladbrokes and listening to the experts opine.  On one such programme airing on the BBC’s 5Live last Friday, a number of pundits named their world eleven, a team comprising the best players that history has delivered us.  Amongst others, names such as Pele, Beckenbauer, Maradonna, Zoff, Matteus and Zico were pencilled onto the team sheet, conjuring some of the most magical moments in football, as I recalled the feats of some of these players.

At the time, Jamie and I were heading to the Rutherford Appleton Laboratory near Oxford to listen to an illuminating talk by Prof. Mark McCaughrean on the work of the European Space Agency and I asked Jamie who he’d have in his world eleven.  What transpired is proof of a number of things: that we are each our own; that we should form only our ambitions; and that my son has not the remotest bit of interest in the world of football.  For 20 minutes we laboured at establishing a team, me providing what I considered to be the most obvious of hints, but which in hindsight, only someone with an interest in the game would be able to get, albeit, when it came to Walkers Crisps, we got to Gary Linekar relatively easily, although Jamie did think he was a cricketer. 

We soon dispensed with naming players to their preferred position or even the possibility of filling a bench, we were like a pub team on a Sunday scrubbing around to find enough fellas to fill 22 boots.  Even David Beckham didn’t manage to raise a mention, although admittedly I failed to think of him myself and provide Jamie a clue like “Who is Posh Spice’s husband?”

Which leads me to my point.  Despite his utter lack of interest in football and his unwillingness to share my passion for the game and fulfil my dreams, I am immensely proud of my son.  One day, he may be a brilliant scientist, mathematician or pilot (or something as yet still to be determined).  Whilst I marvelled at Professor McCaughrean as he outlined the staggeringly clever maths and physics that go into landing an explorer on a comet, Jamie took it in his stride, accepting it simply as a component part of the science that goes into space exploration.  He is quite beyond my level of understanding in matters of the Universe and will never be able to turn to me for help with his homework; not that he needs my assistance; his independence, diligence and skills in the maths and science disciplines are more than enough to see him through, although he does have the physicists disdain for what he considers to be biological nonsense.

He will inevitably follow his path in the world and my role, I now realise, is not to lead him down a route that I would follow, but rather be there to support him along the road, doing what I can to make it as smooth a ride as possible.

It is right to have dreams for our children, but they shouldn’t be what we had as our own.  The dream should be that they are happy and free to pursue their dreams.  One should dream too, that through hard work, endeavour and if it takes it, luck, they achieve them.  That is a dream worthy of any parent. 

Of course, all that said, Jamie realising those dreams may not help to diminish the pain I felt when, in all seriousness, he asked me, “Dad, what is the point of football?”

Stating the bleedin' obvious

Why does there appear to be a presumption that having once been great footballers, players will naturally be able to make a seamless transition from pitch to punditry?

Admittedly, some make the leap into broadcasting effortlessly.  Gary Lineker, for example, has a natural affinity for the camera; his talent as a presenter is wholly apparent.  So too is that of one of his co-presenters on Match of the Day, Alan Hansen, whose analysis of a game is excellent, if not predictable as he routinely assassinates defences that fail to meet the standards he believed he set as a player. In fairness, he was quite handy as a central defender, but his line of banter lacks a little variation.  It'd be lovely if, for a change, a goal was brilliantly crafted by the team that scored it, rather than if being gifted to them as a result of some imagined defensive frailties that the dour Scot has spotted.

That said, Messrs Lineker and Hansen do at least manage to entertain without the need to resort too often to tired clichés, the most ubiquitous being "It was a game of two halves", "At the end of the day, the better team won" or something equally banal from the manager of a team that has just been soundly thrashed uttering the enlightening comment that "We're going to need to tighten up a bit at the back".  Most of these are forgivable, after all, the media is seeking a sound bite from a person whose job it is to mould and shape a winning football team rather than provide BAFTA winning performances for the camera.

Yet when a player is recruited to provide commentary, one would hope that the broadcaster responsible for their employ would find someone who can provide the viewing or listening audience with insights that are drawn from a deep knowledge of the sport that enriches our understanding of the game or the talent that we are watching.

Graham Le Saux's comment on Radio 4 this morning that "... to win the tournament it's vital they [England] get through to the second round" was absolutely correct, but staggeringly obvious.  I'm left scratching my head wondering if there's a possibility of an outsider sneaking World Cup victory by failing to get to the playoffs.  Hell, perhaps even New Zealand could win it this year having failed to qualify for the tournament.  I live in hope.

It all begs the question, why do we have to listen to so many pundits that provide us with words not to illuminate, but with utterances that cause me to reach for the PC to deliver a mild rant?  Pearls of wisdom that engender such behaviour stem from some of the most respected players of their time, who prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that being a great footballer does not necessarily lead to skills in oratory.

When reviewing the Premier League table earlier this year, Graham Souness uttered the following profound statement, "It's anybody's guess, but one of the teams in that league will win it". You don't say Graham.  His pronouncement was so astonishingly obvious as to render his co-commentator momentarily speechless as he tried to conjure a response that wouldn't make him sound similarly amoebic.

I was depressed too, to listen to Michael Owen getting highly agitated over a league match between two sides towards the bottom end of the table proclaim, "Both of these sides want to win".  Are you sure Michael? I suspect one of them was desperately trying to gift the game to the opposition so that they might languish at the foot of the table, relishing more than the other side the prospect of relegation.

Thankfully, Graham Le Saux's comments allowed me to appreciate that dodgy punditry isn't limited just to ex-Liverpool players; regrettably, our airwaves are overflowing with former players who probably get taken to the studio by their carers.  With the World Cup a little over a week away, I am tempted to watch with the volume off, lest I find myself mildly vexed at proclamations of the bleedin' obvious.  This however would deprive me of the joy that stems from calling a passage of play identically to that of the commentator or pundit, which leads me momentarily to believe that I may have missed a calling in broadcasting.

Notwithstanding the above, I am greatly looking forward to the tournament, even more so now that I have heard from Graham Le Saux.  I'm going to rush off to the bookmakers now to put a tenner on New Zealand to win.  Stranger things have happened.

Te Omanga Hospice and the Raid Alpine challenge

Dear all

 

In December last year I lost my sister, Tracey, to lung cancer. 

 

Following her diagnosis, we were lucky enough to be able to head back to New Zealand in July 2013 to spend some time with her and her family.  During that time we witnessed the outstanding care and support that she was receiving from the Te Omanga hospice, which also supported my mother during her final days.

 

We also talked about my cycling ventures and what the plans were for this year and having already spoken with my fellow riders, I was able to make a pledge to her that we would ride in her honour this year, and seek to raise money for Te Omanga.  At the time, I little suspected that the ride would be a memorial to her, but such are the ravages of the illness.

 

So forgive me for reaching out cap in hand, but I'm sure you'll appreciate that this is a very worthy cause which relies heavily on the funding it receives from donors such as you.

 

Our challenge this year is a big one, and I have to question my sanity when agreeing to sign up for it, but I'm on that path...
 

The Raid Alpine challenge

Eight MAMILs (middle aged men in lycra), supported by two very forgiving and patient ladies, will cross the Alps from Thonon (Geneva) to Antibes (Nice) in 5 days; a challenge normally undertaken over a full week or longer.  Ahead of us lie 721 kilometres of road that wend with 16,000+ metres of climbing across 23 cols (mountain passes).  It's akin to getting to the top of Mt Everest, nipping back down to base camp and starting again!  As you can no doubt appreciate, we may have bitten off more than we can chew.  But as I say, it's for a very worthy cause...

 

Te Omanga Hospice

Although the Hospice is half a world away from us here in the UK, I am especially passionate about raising money for them given the support they've provide and their heavy dependence on charitable donations.  In short, they are not as awash with money as other (I'm sure equally worthy) causes, so it will be great to really make a difference if we can. 

 

Given that it's a charitable cause based in New Zealand*, the website that hosts the donation service operates in New Zealand dollars, but will naturally take UK based credit cards.  The exchange rate at the moment is around £1 = $1.98, so please remember to double the figure you would normally pay in sterling!

 

In order to make a donation, please visit: 

 

https://www.givealittle.co.nz/cause/2014raidalpinechallenge

 

Thank you all for lending your support to Te Omanga.  Please know that they will be providing comfort and respite to a great number of people who might otherwise be lost without them.

 

All the very best

 

 

Craig

 

* With apologies to my friends in New Zealand, the exchange rate you should use is NZ$1 = NZ$1 :-)

I know they're out there, I ride past 'em often...

There are about 300 ways to feed a rabbit from Newbury's supermarkets and butchers.  

Not one to eat them. 

Cats and Dogs can flourish on an array of feeds that have our cotton-tailed friends as a constituent part, however, it's looking increasingly likely that tomorrow's Pappardelle with Rabbit Ragu will again be prepared with a rabbit that once clucked.

Having said that, the very kind people at Griffins Butchers will be getting a spot of Zebra and Springbok in for me next week.  Try as I might, I can't find a recipe for either in Gordon Ramsey's World Kitchen, so I suspect a special marinade and a touch of lighted charcoals will be the order of the day. 

Bring on the barbie...

Heartbroken

Tonight I enjoyed a lovely supper at The Bowler's Arms in Wash Common with the Family Brown, commenting that I am just eight days away from the 24th anniversary of my arrival in the UK, when my daughter asks "Dad, when you lived in New Zealand, did you have a Kiwi accent?"

If she wasn't so young she'd have got a four letter response followed by "off".

You think you know someone...

So, I get a part in a play as a celebrity chef. Play it like John Torrode says Mrs B. He's from your neck of the woods. As Wellington is to Sydney, so's Kiev to London. My heart is broken...

Planning on penury – the 2015 Rugby World Cup

£2,860 is a lot of money. There are many things that one could buy with such a sum: a week’s holiday at the five-star Hilton Dubai Jumeirah Resort for a family of four; a 65 inch Smart 3-D television from Samsung; a 2009 registered Fiat Panda with 34,000 miles on the clock. Alternatively, you could take that same family of four for an afternoon out at Twickenham to watch the Rugby World Cup final in 2015. Let that last bit sink in for a moment.

Twickenham debenture holders learned last week that if they want to watch the final they will need to stump up £715 per ticket to watch the match. A minimum wage worker doing a 40-hour week would have to work nearly 3 weeks to buy their ticket - and let's hope they're not remotely hungry during that period because they’ll have nothing left to buy lunch.

I would dearly love to take my family to the game. Being an optimistic soul, I would hope to watch the All Blacks lift the Webb Ellis trophy for the third time. However, at that price I am faced with two dilemmas.

The first is the cost; can I really justify spending that much money to watch an 80 minute rugby match? Secondly, there is my somewhat blotted copybook when it comes to watching the All Blacks play live. I'm not sure there is another person on the planet whose win/loss record when watching the mighty Blacks play is worse than mine.  This is, after all, a team that has a 76.17% win record in international matches over a 130-year history.  Their worst single-nation record is against South Africa where they’ve only won on 57.47% of occasions. I only got to the 50% mark when I saw them beat England at Twickenham in November last year.  In the 12 times I have seen them play, I have seen them win six, draw one and lose five. So if there is a connection between my presence and the All Blacks’ performance, I have to question whether or not I should be anywhere near the stadium, especially considering the amount of money that I might have to fork out to watch them lose.

All of which brings me to the point. The Rugby Football Union is taking the piss. In England in particular, rugby has been, to a greater or lesser extent, the preserve of the middle classes. However, increasingly, it is stretching out to a grassroots level. This should be fostered and encouraged and there can be few better ways of achieving this than providing access for younger players to witness world-class rugby at the highest level.

Now the RFU will argue that they have an obligation to debenture holders (which is absolutely right) and that thereafter, first preference for tickets goes to rugby clubs and schools around the country.  At those eye wateringly expensive levels, I don't doubt that a significant proportion of tickets will be returned unallocated or find their way into the hands of those for which they were not originally intended. I know there is a balance to be struck in hosting a financially viable World Cup, but it stands to reason that the Rugby World Cup final will largely be funded by corporate hospitality, which leads of course to another pet irritation of mine, empty seats.

There are only 80 minutes of play in a rugby match, two halves separated by a 10 minute interval.  In those 10 minutes, the guests of the Corporates are expected to get through a sumptuous meal and drinks before returning to their seats.  Now I like a pie and a pint as much as the next man, but I’d be buggered if I was going to yield to a glass of vino at the expense of missing even one highly priced minute of the World Cup final.  Many however, will stay at the table rather than return to their seats.  Even sandwiches don’t curl in 40 minutes – let your stomachs wait; get back to the match, the beer won’t have time to go flat!

I don’t doubt for a moment that the final will be sold out, clearly illustrating that market forces will be in play and that supply and demand economics will prove the RFU’s very greedy case.  I somehow suspect, however, that I won’t be there.  Although having said that, if the All Blacks make the final, there might be one or two folk from the country opposing them that would happily fund my presence in the hope that my influence will be the undoing of New Zealand’s national team.

Equally, there may be many in New Zealand willing to pay me NOT to attend.  There’s a thought, on the basis that I’m considering taking the family, the cost to keep me away might just be a little below £3,000.  I think I’d be more than happy to watch the final from the bar at the Hilton Dubai Jumeirah.

The plague of auto-correction

One should always take pause prior to hitting the send button on one's mobile phone.  At the weekend, a friend was due to visit with her family and we thought it would be a great idea to go for a walk and have a pub lunch.

Given the wealth of rain we've had recently, the prudent advice was to bring appropriate footwear for the occasion, so I sent a text to that effect, or at least, that was my intention.  Instead of the abbreviation for Wellington boots, my text read. "Don't forget your willies".

Before I could repair my gaff, she responded with "I don't have a willie".  In fairness to her however, she did arrive with her husband and two sons.

A GOM in the making

I used to think it odd that my mother could never quite fathom the art of setting a VCR to record the showings of Coronation Street that she would miss when she popped out for her car maintenance evening classes.

I found it somewhat of a paradox that she was planning to learn the rudimentary steps of auto care (which seemed highly complex to me) when she couldn't set the video to record a few Corrie episodes. This was especially unfathomable when I considered that nothing could be simpler than programming an entire week's worth of entertainment from the comfort of an armchair at the touch of a few remote control buttons.

Technology it seemed to me, was wasted on the aged.  Not that my mother was particularly old, at 46, she would rightly argue that she still had a good few years ahead of her, but to me, she seemed a little dated.  I resolved therefore, never to lose touch with technology, that I would maintain a steadfast focus on ensuring a detailed understanding of which buttons to push.

Fast forward 30 years and I have discovered that to a greater or lesser degree, technology has dispensed with buttons and I have dispensed with an understanding of how to operate it.  I have become, as it were, my mother, albeit without the ability to change the air filter in a car.

It's not that I don't like technology; I love gadgets.  We have loads in our house, none of which I have the foggiest idea how to use.  I invested in my first ever iPhone last year and discovered that I'm highly proficient at controlling the volume; which requires the use of a button, but utterly unable to negotiate Facebook without the help of my 14-year-old son, who demonstrates its use so rapidly that I remain blissfully ignorant of how to read beyond the first four people who wished me a happy birthday recently.  I believe I had another dozen or so well wishers who passed comment on my progress through middle age, but I could equally have received notification from Nigerian benefactors of the millions that are due to me should I ever find a way to locate their post and provide them with my bank details.

All of which leads me to the purpose of this diatribe; I am getting on.  According to the authors of Psalm 90, we have a whole three score years and ten to enjoy.  On that basis, middle age would run from a little over 23 to just under 47, so I'm only a few years off old age.  

In celebration of that fact, I have decided that I am going to start posting my observations of the changes that the years inflict upon us.  A fundamental inability to operate an iPhone, which as Apple is so fond of telling us, is completely intuitive, is but a start of the decline.  There are many more instances that I increasingly see, hear and feel, or more to the point, don't see, can't hear and painfully feel.  

I am going to embrace these changes and moan like hell about them.  After all, according to the Psalmists, I am but three years from leaving the mid-part of my life and I will be entering my dotage before I know it.  If that's not something to harrumph about, I don't know what is.  I shall begin my development as a Grumpy Old Man.  Let the training begin...