A sotong that would have long lost all suction and ink!
My father died at 64, my mother, 71. He had his wits about him till the very end, but she went hand-in-hand with Alzheimer's.
So if you don't mind, don't tell me how many more blur years I have (to prepare for) ahead of me. My business, okay.
And I am going to make it a business, all my marbles about me being equal.
So roll up, roll up, my soon-to-be fellow annuitants, and gimme your $300.
Don't worry, I move like a slow loris anyway, so I won't be running away - we'll be lucky to be crawling at 85 - with your pocket money.
Isn't life a crock? Just when you thought you were in sight of the crock(pot) of gold at one end of the rainbow (working life) it turns out crocks (old, decrepit persons) are not to be trusted - with their own money.
All right, we are an ageing population, and you do care that we don't run out of gas when the winter of our discontent sets in. But at least can give us a choice in how we want to tank up?
That's why I'm encouraging those on $10-a-day when you hit the 80s to join forces.
In fact, I see us buying a double-decker bus suitably outfitted for the elderly, and on our combined resources, live in it, free to roam where we want.
Yes, but how do we shower on board the bus?
You know what, I have always wanted to end up a dirty old woman...
