So, 62 today. Do I feel any different? Of course not. I’m still about 23 inside, sometimes 17, sometimes 90. We all seem to exist in a timescale divorced from our physical shells. Is this a defence mechanism, some biological device that enables us to live our lives without the constant reminders of our mortality? Or is it a refusal to acknowledge the passing of time, which is, in any case, an illusion? Are we more truthful in our minds, ignoring the wrinkles, aching joints and increasing visits to the toilet, than we are in our everyday lives, where such evidence can only be discarded with the consent of those around us? Who knows?
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