City life

When I turned 70 in September, I had a panic attack. I was certain that my romantic life was over. I’d finally crossed over from middle-age into old age and had joined that sad tribe of the unshaggable. My time as a fun-loving lothario was at an end. Goodbye hot wild monkey sex – hello hot cocoa. These days, thanks to my chronic arthritis of the knee, I can’t raise my leg, much less get it over Concerned female friends told me I was guilty – once again – of premature self-pity. They assured me that there was sex – and plenty of it – after 70. And just as smokers and boozers love to tell the story of the aunt or uncle who smoked and drank all the time and still lived till 100, so friends told me the story of some aunt or uncle who was still having affairs at 85.

Now that I’m about to turn 70, I’m wondering: shall I grow old gracefully, or disgracefully? Everyone I know, young and old, tells me that I must go disgracefully (and that’s how they plan to go, or so they say). It seems that growing old gracefully has gone out of style – especially for women – but maybe it’s time for a revival? After a life of doing right and responsible things, you can now let your hair down – if you have any left What’s the difference between the two? Growing older gracefully is about letting go of the pleasures of youth – sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll or whatever vice you prefer – for the more restrained and dignified delights of maturity. You dress, act and talk in an age-appropriate way. No trainers. No jeans.

Every year at the beginning of April, I tell myself I must top up my Isa before the 5 April deadline. And all my friends tell me I must. My financial adviser tells me I must. Articles in the press and adverts on social media tell me I must. And every year on 6 April I ask myself: why didn’t I top up my Isa? Yes, I know investing in an Isa is the smart, sensible thing to do – so why haven’t I done it for the past ten years? Every year I have an excuse. Capitalism is about to collapse; it’s government-sanctioned tax avoidance; I should give the money to some worthy group of activists. But the real reason is fear. I can face almost anything – childhood trauma, root canal work, prostate examinations – but when it comes to personal finances, I’m a coward.

Recently, I got very stoned. I haven’t been that stoned since I was at Woodstock. Or was it the first Glastonbury festival? Or maybe Bob Dylan at the Isle of Wight? I can’t remember, but that’s dope for you. The curious thing is, I don’t take drugs any more. I hate getting high. It’s like your brain is seasick. But there I was at a party and the hostess offered me an apple-flavoured, cannabis-infused gummie. Without thinking, I swallowed it – just as if I’d been offered a canapé. Someone later told me I ran out of the party yelling: ‘Help! I’m going to die!’ As soon as I did so, however, I started to panic. What had I done? Why had I done it?