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Y the time you reach your mid-40s you’re on the slippery slope to becoming a full-blown boring old fart, and one of the pit stops on Route BOF is when you start sentences with “Oh, how I miss the good ole days when . . . ”.

I say this to pre-empt any rolling of the eyes that might ensue as a result of this column, because oh, how I miss the good ole days when people used to say “thank you”.

Don’t get me wrong. People still mumble the words, but they tumble out of their mouths the same way that “Pleased to meet you” does, or “Bless you” when you sneeze. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about actual gratitude.

The other day I’m busy chatting to a friend on Daveyton’s Judas Street. A girl approaches us and asks if one of us has a R2 coin because she’s short on some purchase at the nearby spaza. I lean into the