A few days ago I overheard one of my daughters calling us 'the wrinklies'; I immediately looked in the mirror and realised that the description was a fair one.
I offered some protestation, however, because it is not an accurate name for Mrs M. She may be three weeks older that me but she looks youthful. I know that I definitely married up.
Trying to offer support I commented that she didn't look a day over forty. She was quick to point out that we are at the age when such compliments don't work, mainly because forty still has the ring of age about it.
I shouldn't be too upset with being called a wrinkly as, much to their amusement, we have been using the title for our parents for a number of years; they must be thicker skinned than us.
I told my dad about the latest stage we have reached, and commented that, if we have arrived the moment where our laughter lines have determined our description, what should his generation now be called.
He informed me that his generation already had a new name. Apparently the local bus drivers in his locality have started carling them 'twirlies'.
I asked him why; suggesting that perhaps it referred to their dancing abilities and deftness of foot when getting on and off buses. But no!
He went on to describe how the name only applies to a five-minute period between twenty-five past nine and nine-thirty in the morning.
Evidently, as the drivers arrive at each bus stop during this period they are greeted to the sight of groups of pensioners all asking 'Are we too early to use our free bus passes?'
Hence the name Twirly. I guess it's a northern thing.
It does strike me as excellent that the elderly of Britain time their morning journey for maximum value.
Before the introduction of the free bus passes there was nothing to stop them setting off on their journeys as early as they desired.
I asked my dad why pensioners were so eager to travel during the early morning and he simple replied 'because we run out of sleep'.
'Added to this' he said 'is the fact that we need to get back for our tea'.
Apparently this is the age when you can no longer eat onions passed five o'clock without your whole sleep pattern being disturbed.
It struck me as ironic that whilst my wife and I are all too eager (tweagre) to use our social networking sites before nine-thirty our parents prefer to get out of the house and meet people for real.
Where we are tweeters whilst they are twirlies!
Tweeters or Twirlies
In Ballet They Don't Call It Skipping
Last weekend we celebrated our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary. We decided long ago that the main stay of our celebratory presents for such events would not be surprises.
You might see this as a lack of romance but I am pretty sure the Mrs M was being pragmatic when she suggested we should adopt such a position. After all why risk valuable gift money being wasted on items that you might not want. In truth I have been known to buy things that seemed sensible to me but didn't fit with a female perspective on gift buying (we won't mention the sowing box of 1988).
For this year's anniversary my bride hinted well in advance that we had never been to see a ballet. She started this process well in advance during our trip to see Strictly Come Dancing. What started out as a reasonable wish to watch a tango from close up turned into a desire to spend a couple of hours viewing pirouettes.
With this said we set off for Sheffield to watch the Northern Ballet's rendition of Wuthering Heights.
The Lyceum theatre was superb and the cast were clearly were world class; it wasn't long before the whole audience were spellbound, including myself.
Mrs M lapped up every minute of the performance and during the interval she seemed eager to find out what I made of this dancing feast.
I pointed out that, although I appreciated the skill of both the performers and the orchestra, I wasn't fully sure what was happening in the story.
My bride tried to help by enquiring what was going through my mind as I watched; I think she felt that this might show that I understood at some deeper level.
'Well' I said, trying to be honest, 'most of the time I was thinking how much all of the male dancers looked like 'Alistair McGowen'.
She looked slightly disappointed as if hoping that somewhere inside this eighteen stone ex - rugby player was a cultured heart.
'In addition' I continued 'I was counting how many times they skipped'.
Apparently this wasn't the answer she wanted and she tried to tell me that in the ballet it isn't called skipping.
On the plus side I bought ice creams for us both; it seems that I didn't choose well and so I had to eat the one that Mrs M rejected and then go back for another of the one I had chosen for myself. Result!
We settled down to watch the second half and I tried to view it through enlightened eyes. At the end my bride again asked for my opinion. 'It would have been better if they had ended with the Kate Bush song' I offered.
The Back Seat Driving Panel
As Mrs M and I approach our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary I feel it time for some reflection. Early on in our marriage we agreed to share responsibility for the various tasks involved in raising a family.
I was assigned the role of chief driver whenever we travelled even though, to be fair, my bride is a better driver than I am (although I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her I said so).
My responsibilities as family chauffer, however, don't come without their share of challenges.
It seems, and the female members of my family are in agreement on this, that I don't drive in a way that meets with their approval.
I either drive too slowly or I travel to fast. I either park too near or I park too far away.
And so it is that I have developed a thick skin when it comes to car related comments. I normally reply with 'when you are driving you can park wherever you want' or something similar.
Still our trips are accompanied by a set of regular encouraging remarks; 'watch that car', 'the lights are turning red', 'I am sure the other way would be quicker'.
In recent months a new phrase has been added largely due the fact that my advancing years seems to have brought a small amount of hearing loss. The phrase is in fact just a single word; 'indicator'.
My problem is not helped by the fact that the steering wheel seems to be inconveniently positioned to obscure the indicator light from view.
Last week we have had some of our dearest friends over for a few days. It was good to catch up and we spent many happy hours putting the world to rights safe in the knowledge that we had no responsibility for having to put our ideas into operation.
During our trips out I reverted to type and took up my usual position behind the wheel. Mrs M offered her help by reminding me that the colour red meant stop. Daughter number two considerately added some advice about the correct use of bus lanes.
Eventually, encouraged by my wife and daughters wise words, our female friend joined the panel of driving experts. She seemed to think that I might have forgotten how to use round-a-bouts.
I looked across at her husband for support and he raised his eyes in acknowledgement of my dilemma. We said nothing but I was comforted by the fact that he understood.
When we arrived at our destination he offered me the greatest sign of solidarity by turning up the volume on the CD player in order to drown out the help offered by the back seat panel.
