I am 77. I should know better, grow up, act my age, potter sedately round a golf course in an electric buggy. But, no, I choose to spend six months exploring the Indian subcontinent.
My wife, of course, is pleased to have me out of the house. Men, when they don’t work five days a week, occupy too much space. We have irritating habits – not putting the seat back down, leaving dirty socks and underpants on the floor, failing to put the milk and butter back in the refrigerator.
What do my sons think? The older two, in their 40s, merely shrug; Dad’s acting true to form. But Joshua and Jedediah are university age. Ancient Dad playing Che Guevara is an embarrassment. Their gap-year friends message me: “Hi, Simon, have you left yet? We’re in the Andaman Islands.”
To which Joshua posts: “Oh, my God, my 78-year-old dad on Facebook.”
I reply: “Only 76, please. I will celebrate my 77th birthday in Goa.
(Read the rest of this article at the Guardian)