I was 70 last month. I celebrated on the day itself by having a blood test (at 08:00!) to make sure I still had the necessary hormones and chemicals in the right proportions. Seems I do.
The month was filled with dentistry, osteopathy, and having my garden hard standing re-surfaced, so I was too busy to linger long on the symbolism of passing 70.
When I was a young lad, there weren’t many men over 70. Men died pretty briskly after retiring, mainly because they had been doing jobs that left them physically depleted and, as we now know, stuffed full of asbestos and other such damaging substances. For men, 75 was old, 80 was almost un-heard of, except amongst the very well-off and some Chelsea Pensioners.
70 doesn’t have any significance. It’s just one more post-retirement year marked by a slow decline in one’s energy levels. 80 is the new 60 - the age at which one can expect to live five more years (or not).
Ten years. When I was twenty, that was a lifetime.
Maybe it still is.
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