When you're fifty, SAGA (Social Activities for the Golden Age) send you a birthday card and invite you to partake in the lifestyle determined by them for the more genteel years, and buy their insurance. Though (see my last bletherings) with sixty being the new forty I expect that a delightful tour of the Amish communities has metamorphosed into a trip to Vegas hosted by Hunter S.
When you're sixty the NHS (National Health Service) write to you and ask you to participate in the Bowel Cancer Screening Programme, then a week later they send you a different sort of card, and instructions, fortunately not illustrated, and an envelope lined with waterproof foil, rather like those ones that were used to transport floppies (no comment), only in this case a deliquescent floppy.
So to sum up, at fifty you're invited to participate in a cruise, and at sixty you're invited to participate in a game of poo sticks.
1 comment:
No no, at 50 you're invited to come and have your breasts felt. As I am not due to be 60 for quite a while, I've plenty of time to consider how that might progress.
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