My father in law is a character. You know the type. Growing
old with grace and passion. Passing on his years of wisdom
whether you want it are not. He’s tall for his age.
That’s 76 to me and you, and a widower.

Despite his age he won’t admit that he’s a pensioner.
The only time he does categorise himself with the other,
‘bloody pensioners,’ is after 9.00, to gain entry to
free travel, for his senior citizen discounts in the
barbers, and for his free TV license, which, incidentally he
moans at, as there is never anything on.  

Wears a shirt and tie daily, and stretches to a t-shirt
while on his annual month long holiday to Malta every
November till December. 

No braces required.

He never moans about his own age, but does plenty of
groaning at his peers.

‘Wombles,’ ‘twirlies.’ (too early, for the bus.)

My father in law. Imports his knowledge onto the resident
student population, and does this with such grace and
comedy, that he doesn’t close the door, and they shout,
‘silly old sod.’ 

This is a man, who on retiring from been head chef on the
first class trains, wouldn’t take the offer of a thousand
pound for his life time rail pass. ‘I earned that. Why on
earth would I sell it back to you people?’

He even did this with elegance, dignity, respect, trendiness
and humour that no one thought to ask him twice.

Age is but a concept and providing you keep smiling, and
stick to the limitations that your age defines then you can
work against the social expectations of growing old. 

Out of sight out of mind.

Not this man.

He is sociable and in touch with life. Just ask the shop
assistants up at the local Somerfield’s.


Rides to town and back everyday on his exercise bike. Too
dangerous to ride anything which isn’t secured to the
floor. After all, he can put his heater on while going to
town this way.

He does tend to think he’s superman sometimes. Without the
blue and red fitted suit. That would be too much even for
his ‘dry wit.’

He packs his suit case two weeks before his holiday. Well
when I say suit case, without very many contents. He
doesn’t see the point in taking, ‘all that stuff
everyone else takes, why not just wash what you take.’ 

I guess he does have a point. Except he’s on holiday. So
the idea generally is take enough not to have to do much
laundry. He takes a couple of shirts, for dinner of course.
A few t-shirts. Yes that’s what I said. T-shirts. Oh his
trainers, and his cargo pants. Not for the fashion effect
though. Nope, for the pockets that goes all the way down his
leg.

Oh yes. I forgot to mention. This holiday. For a month. To
Malta. He moaned this year. It went up by ten pound. That
meant the holiday in its entirety cost Ł460. 

He takes a washing line. Which by the way, me and my beloved
had to admit was a good idea and have taken one ourselves
for the past two years. 

So off he goes on his jollies. Cargo pants. Shirt. Trainers.
For comfort. His empty suitcase, with washing line. 

Wait.

There’s the airport.

He stands in line and looks around at his fellow travellers.
All keen to get their bones to warmer climate for the
winter. 

This is hardly the 18-30 club. It’s the 70-90 club. With
medication in hand, bifocals, eyeglasses, oxygen bottles and
enough luggage for a year. 

Laughs out loud with his club members who gaze in wonderment
at each other and take bets as to who will return. 

He bought a drink for a lady traveller. Who enquired about
his arrangements while away, his reply, ‘I bought you a
drink, not asked you to marry me?’

He sits on the ‘dad’s army table’ with his drink with
no ice. After all, ‘you can’t trust the water.’

I and my other half have also taken up this practice.

He was asked to join the ‘young at hearts club.’ He’s
a little deaf, but won’t admit this, and thought they
asked him if he wanted to join the ‘younger tarts club.’
His comment was, ‘I don’t think half these would survive
younger tarts.’