ON BEING 80

The first thing to be said about being 80, disappointing though the revelation might be, is that for the time being at least 80 seems a lot like being 79. The rhythms and rituals of each day are still seriously familiar.
I continue to take my daily tranche of pills and potions; Felix the cat still waits until I have sat down with the newspaper before he begins to demand food or attention; and quiz show questions about pop music and celebrities, post-Cab Calloway and Donald Peers, still give me the same sinking feeling. And although I haven't tested it yet, I dare say I shall still walk about 75 yards in town before stopping to admire the goods in a shop window, look at the view, or pause to speak to someone; pretexts, all of them, to enable my legs to stop aching and my breathing to return to normal.
Routine service maintained? Well, not quite, because memory can play tricks, and because some people delight in regarding me with new found amusement. Got your walking-stick, have you? Dentures OK, or are your seaside rock-eating days over at last? Joined the geriatric brigade?
In fact, and although I don't talk about it much, the acquisition of an electric buggy is only just on the other side of the horizon.
Mind you, there are also defensive devices I can use in return. For example, I have been working hard at trying to maintain a form of indifference, a regal, cathedral-like calm in the face of any sort of hurly-burly. There's a panic on? Hadn't noticed. Got to hurry, have we? Sorry, I don't do hurry. I do stoicism instead.
A newish level of grumpiness is allowable, too. With more to look back on than look forward to, it is fashionable and comforting, to a degree, to be able to adopt irritation and a certain misery-guts form of outlook. One is always in good company with this. And there is also the air of superiority one can cultivate over, for example, politics or general knowledge. Or even football. You know something is wrong, or that it won't work, because you have seen and heard it all before, and it was wrong and didn't work then.
I can also work a little harder at recognising irony, because now there is a better chance my utterings on the subject will be interpreted as the mere meanderings of a geriatric. Such as, our erstwhile Prime Minister at the Magna Carta anniversary ceremony, singing the praises of Human Rights even while planning to eradicate some of them. Was I the only one to spot that?
Mind you, I dare say that in the weeks to come I will discover something specific to being 80, even though it might be difficult. I've already got my free TV licence, my free prescriptions, my designated doctor and my winter fuel allowance, and I could have a bus pass, because they all appear in the late 70s.
In the meantime, I have decided to carry on as before, doing the same things, wearing the same clothes, disliking the same foods and music. For as most coffee mugs seem to scream nowadays, the important thing is to keep calm and carry on. 
Now where have I heard that before? Eh . . .