Iin my old age, I haven't so much mellowed as melanoma-ed which means every six months I contribute to my dermatologist's late-model BMW lease payments by having several sunspots burnt off or cut out.
Every second visit requires a fresh referral from my GP who also drives a Beemo but seems keen to get his hands on the latest model as he put me through a battery of pathology tests whose meaning I can only guess: ESR; E/LFTs; CRP; Glucose; Iron; TFTs; Lipids/HDL; HbA1C.
The blood-sucking nurse first tried my left arm but her search for a well-defined vain was, well, in vain. So the tourniquet came off the left arm and onto the right, followed by another needle, and more searching. Funny how I bleed at the slightest scratch but they can't get enough of the stuff for their tests.
Finally, having satisfied her vampiric efforts, I was allowed to go and break my fast at the nearest coffee shop which advertised "Coffee with Bega Milk". Why not just milk? What makes milk from Bega - a small town south of here whose only claim to fame is its dairy industry - so special that it even rates a mention? All this redundant advertising to justify an extraordinary price for something ordinary.
"The Senior's Special for you, dear?" asked the pretty young waitress with a smile. When a pretty young girl smiles at you, calls you 'dear', and assumes you take the senior's special, you know you're old!
