It is. Or it was. 1 October 2020. Yes, yesterday. I forgot. It happens. I’m old enough to not worry about the little things.

And what is the theme for this lovely little international day for oldies?

The decade of Healthy Ageing (I always have to look up whether to put that ‘e’ in there), and — ta-dah! — that damned pandemic.

I won’t speak for others, but I’ve had enough of both those things.

Healthy Ageing. With so many experiences ranging from shocking to just plain horrible from medical services, personnel, drugs (the legal type, thank you very much), insurance, etc. etc. etc. I could go on, but it wears me out. I’m too old for that expletive.

Like many other people in my position, I’d rather be left alone, undrugged, and unencumbered by the ‘you should be doing this’ brigade, and ‘it’s for your own good’ youngsters (should I tell them why I’ve earned every limp and scar? Nah.).

There are problems with the body as it ages. The mind needs a workout on a regular basis, too, and both need the right kind of fuel. But with the way advice on these things change so fast, so often, and so dramatically, I’ll do it my way. Even if I have to die young (whoops, skipped that bit!). Let’s say younger, then, than I would have if I’d been the angelic follower-of-rules and advertising.

Anger is not one of the things that keeps a body away from those blood-sucking, money-grabbing institutions.

So I stay away. I write about horror that might not be possible, not about the horrors inflicted upon the unknowing by those with profit lines as their only margin to measure.

Humph. Now this scrooge will go back to work on tales of non-reality, scary-type fiction and ignore every other day that thinks to tell us how to live long enough to see [bleep, bleep, bleep].

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Okay, that’s it. Whinge over. I’m going back to editing now. Keep a lookout for the Libra story when it comes out, which won’t be too long.