The only oestrogen in the room came from a packet. And, from my seat, no man had a full head of hair. It could have been a convention of replaced hips, knees and dodgy coronary arteries. Such was the age profile at the Sunday afternoon concert at the West Cork Chamber Music Festival that few could read the programme without glasses, and almost all must have struggled with the higher frequencies. more…

I think I’m healthy, but am I right? I’m tubby. My hair is white and thin and gone altogether from some parts of my head. I’m short sighted and astigmatic. My Achilles tendon aches at times, and when I get out of bed in the morning I hobble. I haven’t had my blood pressure measured for a while; nor my blood lipids. My prostate is, I suspect, large, but I haven’t had it examined. Nor have I had my prostate specific antigen measured. And my bowel has not been sigmoidoscoped. My genes have not been examined, but I suspect something dreadful lurks there. My mother is dementing as her mother did before her. I often can’t remember names. I don’t smoke, but I drink more alcohol than the Royal College of Physicians thinks wise—and I’m rather too fond of pies. I walk a lot, cycle often, and run occasionally, but I don’t exercise as much as I should. more…