More Senior Moments

It is my birthday tomorrow.

I have been asked, by my loved ones, on the run up to this anniversary for any ideas on what I would like by way of a present or presents.

In my usual flippant style I have in response requested world peace, another pop at a referendum, a pair of leather trousers (or is it trouser?), the availability of Lionel Messi (if not incarcerated for his monetary imprudence) on a free transfer to Hull City (newly promoted via the play-offs to the English Premier League), a global restriction of Twitter access to wannabee celebrities and a final decision on who is to be the next James Bond.

My impending age change is not one of life's milestones.

I will be 53 years old, frankly, a bit of a non-age.

On the upside I am still within my preferred drop down age range on internet survey forms and my car insurance may show a preferential rate upon next renewal. A win-win there!

My attitude to getting old has always been quite relaxed as I am a firm believer in mental age rather than actual physical age.

This has been supported by results for those on-line brain games that can be used to pass a few minutes whilst waiting for a doctors appointment, emergency dental work, the bank call centre after having lost or misplaced my bank card or that interminable waste of time spent in the stacking system of the mobile phone company having mis-keyed in my passcode, ironically a representation of my date of birth.

I have a mischievous streak in my deep set brain functions which is fundamental to keeping me feeling young and vital.

This invariably gets me into trouble with my outpourings being frequently misunderstood by family, friends and work colleagues as a coarseness, vulgarity, political incorrectness, sexist and controversial. That may be the case but my flippancy is meant in good humour. Those that know me will, hopefully, testify if needs be in Court that I do not have a malicious, venemous or vindictive bone, sinew, corpuscle or dandruff flake about my person.

I expect that at some time when in the company of those who do not know my personality I will have my come-uppence and face serious reprimand or sanction.

I may have had a fortunate escape just last week when I suggested to a small group of female car boot shoppers that they could clamber into the back of my estate car if they needed to try on any of the clothing on display. It was generally received well but could as easily have been misconstrued as menacing, sinister or just downright creepy.

I got a bit bored after using that line more than just the once and yes, it did sound a bit like a bungled attempt at abduction the more I offered it as part of a very poor attempt at salesmanship.

All of the above has served to divert the conversation from a suggested shortlist of birthday pressies for tomorrow.

In actuality, I do not want for or need anything.

I have plenty of material possessions to meet my everyday demands.

I am blessed by a roof over my head and food in the cupboards.

I am well provided for with people who love me and, for all of my faults and failing, unconditionally at that.

If pressed however for that ideal gift I would opt for a good, old fashioned stiff bristle sweeping brush.

That may seem strange but remember I will be 53 years old tomorrow.

That, to my mind, earns me the right to be outrageously outspoken, tetchy, grumpy and opinionated but above all, and this is where the broom comes in, determined , in a bit of a citizen protest, to clean up the horribly littered and glass strewn foot passage at the end of my street that takes me most mornings to get my old man essentials of newspaper, milk and consumables.