New Old.

I wonder what the new old is and whether I am?

When I was 17 I was pretty convinced that it was 30.

But now?

I read in the paper just the other day about a 100-year-old racing cyclist.

Then again…

I got on my bike last Saturday and had to get off again at the first hill.

10 yards from where I had started.

And that’s because the day before I had run along the river for the first twenty minutes in the last five months and I tore my Achilles tendon and looked felt and sobbed like an old man as I hobbled back to the car.

When I was thirty-one a lady of seventy plus strode past me as I was struggling up one of the steepest slopes in Hong Kong and yesterday I had to leave my bag half way up the two flights of stairs leading to an office in Toulouse as I couldn’t carry both it and me.

Someone said age only matters if you are a cheese….

But it depends what you are trying to do, or how you want to feel as you do it.

In a museum on an island in the Atlantic Ocean last summer (but one) I was offered a concessionary ticket.

But I guess it was better than being exhibited.

Today someone called me a Luddite.

It’s true.

Am I the new old too?

Or can I be an adultescent a little longer?