Time speeds up

I distinctly remember, as a child, my great-grandmother saying that time went faster the older you got. I even checked her big clock (in the "parlour") to see if it went faster than anyone else's. Naturally, it didn't, and I thought she'd lost the plot or was just telling stories.

But she was right, of course. Time does telescope as we grow older. As a kid, it felt as though Christmas only happened about every five years; now, I seem to be still taking down one lot of Christmas lights when the stores are putting theirs up for the next one! Yeah, yeah, I know -- grumpy old fart whinging.

But it's not that at all. It's not just the Christmases; it's entire years -- decades even.

In my mind, I'm still maybe mid-30s. You know, six-foot tall and bulletproof. But the mirror tells the truth; and the body tells the rest. For the very first time, I've asked my body to do things and it's said "nup". It's scary; like I've been betrayed by my best friend. Things hurt that never hurt before; places ache where I didn't even know I had places. Hair grows where I don't want it to grow ... and disappears from where I do want it. For the first time ever, I've gone to write a word and found I've had to stop and think about what it is ... scary stuff for an editor!

Riding the motorbike is harder, too. Why? Well, after a full day, the wrists ache, as do my legs. And I have trouble getting my leg over (Stop that snickering down the back!) the saddle; it's a tall bike.

Waking up in the middle of the night for a pee used to be a thing of wonder. Now, it's a matter of course ... two or three times. And sleep used to be head --> pillow --> sleep --> wake up in the morning. Now, it's more like head --> pillow --> sleep --> wake up --> sleep --> wake up --> sleep --> wake up --> sleep --> wake up --> God it's only 4.30 ... and when I do get up, I'm startled by two pistol shots that echo around the bedroom.

Except they're not pistols shots; they're my knees.

And here it is, the end of May. And that holiday I wrote about last time is suddenly just over the horizon. We're checked in on both ships; air booking Amsterdam to Milan made; car hire in Milan made (Ever tried getting an automatic in Italy? "You-a want-a what, sir?"), and high-speed train to Venice checked but can't be booked until July.

And we've booked a villa for a week in Chiavenna, north of Lake Como, just south of the Swiss border. I still can't believe we're really going to do it. And just to top it off, Sue and Blane (b-i-l and s-i-l) are joining us from Milan on. God, we'll probably party on until ... 8.30 or 9.00 even!

But as well as all that, for the very first time the word "retirement" has crept into my vocabulary. Now that IS scary. I haven't come to terms with it yet, even after a couple of sessions with our financial adviser. (He likes to see us ... says he needs the laugh!)

To me it's not so much a well-earned rest (as they say on the ABC) as the end of my productive life. Suddenly, I'm not not useful; not "needed" anymore. My problem, which I freely admit, is that I've allowed myself to be defined by my occupation too much ... I've forgotten that I'm a person apart from my job.

At this very moment, I absolutely loathe the idea of retirement.

I'm going to have to work on that because, sure as hell, it's getting here faster and faster.