Being 63

Last Friday an attractive long-haired twenty-something brunette spoke to me on the bus. (For many readers this might not be a big deal, but for an over-the-hill heterosexual bloke it potentially is - see Einstein's observation, made when he was in his 70s).

Unfortunately she was offering me her seat!

Another first in my steady decline into old age.

This came on top of being asked if I wanted help carrying a suitcase up the stairs of the Ashley Hotel in Christchurch last week. Though I suspect this was because the offerer had mistaken me for a woman, an indignity with which I am not entirely unfamiliar).

And also on top of C's constant insistence that my hearing is becoming impaired, my breathing laboured, and my gait ungainly.

(In my defence the hearing problem is only when she's either walking in front of me on a narrow footpath or competing with a crucial passage in a book or TV drama. And yes, my lungs are working harder when walking uphill - that's normal - and I can't help it if they're noisier than hers. And yes the hip isn't as flexible as it was but I can walk at a normal pace, still, and we were doing 10 km walks no problem in New Zealand.)

I have to admit it's not quite as easy to tie my right shoelace, but so far me and my osteoarthritis are getting along just fine. The hip occasionally acts up just to remind me that it's not gone away but thankfully has not deteriorated at the rate I feared. And everything else seems to be working OK at present.

But I want to know who decided that after the age of 60 you don't fall over any more, when you trip or miss a step ...you "have a fall"?