Getting old really is a pain

I’m not talking about any deep-seated psychological pain akin to worrying about the Grim Reaper appearing around the corner.

His scythe will swing at some point as inevitable, it would appear, as fracking no matter what people on the ground feel about it.

I’m not talking about the pain or life’s various twists, turns and metaphorical kicks in the teeth either.

And I’m not talking about the all-too-natural pain of wondering what life has in store for my children and grandchildren.

I’m actually taking about the phsyical pain of actually being nearer to 60 than 50.

I’m talking about the sound of my bones snapping, crackling and popping first thing in the morning – a cacophony to rival the Edinburgh Military Tattoo on cold days in Lee Towers.

I’m talking about muscular pain where I didn’t even know I had muscles.

I’m talking about joints that are beginning to feel like the “before” section in a surgical catalogue.

And I’m talking about a body which appears to want to spend a lot more time in “standby” mode than it ever used to.

Those who have read about my running and walking exploits so far this year will say it is all my own fault.

Fair enough.

Those who have known me for any length of time will point to the fact that I am both phsyically and psychologically better suited to eating and drinking than I am to running and walking.

Good point. Good point, well made.

Both observations have made me stop and think about a variety of things, but never about a man with a big scythe.

He’s coming, let’s hope that I have met my great-grandchildren before he does.

But the conclusion I have reached is quite simple.

Whenever I mention an ache or pain, a colleague of a similar vintage just tells me I am getting old.

I have decided he might well be right, but I am still 17 and always will be!