A geriatric hopscotch

I EXPECT most of the Post’s male readers over 70 have experienced the debacle of trying to put one’s trousers on while stood up.

Personally, I end up performing a geriatric version of hopscotch.

The first bit of rigorous exercise in the morning lasts about 20 minutes and leaves me exhausted. Then, once I’ve tied my shoe laces, it’s off to the bathroom to have a shower.

Watching the water cascade down my “body” which resembles a quivering blancmange, I quite often think of my teenage years when I was almost human.

In those days, I had the body of a film star (W C Fields) and legs like Betty Grable.

The next task is to get ready for my daily excursion to the pub. Once I don my flares and polish my head, I shuffle down the road, and after a 15-minute trek I find myself in the Miner’s Arms (he’s a lovely man).

The regulars always find interesting topics to talk about such as the economic situation in Cambodia, the theory of relativity or who’s paying for the next round.

Although I’m no spring chicken, I still regard myself as a ladies man. Their toilets are far more hygienic than the gents.

On my way home last week, I spotted a rare and almost extinct creature. It was the First bus number 43 (lat. doubledeckerus).

Oh well, life’s not so bad. After all, I could have ended up playing for Man United.

Take care everyone, and remember: it’s a jungle out there.

Beau Legs

Bristol