As I was jogging (staggering to be more precise), down the street the other day, I noticed a man gardening outside the former home of an old school friend. Ahhh, I thought, I remember old Johnny Peabody (lets call him) playing in that garden when we were knee high to grasshoppers. The man was bald and slightly stooped. As I approached, he turned to face me. There was a flick of recognition. It WAS little Johnny Peabody. When the people you went to school with become beige-wearing, semi-retired, tea-room frequenters, you know your number is nearly up. It was bad enough the day I realised I had memories spanning 30 years. How did that happen? I (try to) laugh about it with my friends, two of whom live abroad. We are dreading that particular reunion when we all turn up with curly white hair. I think, I hope, we will still see the funny side as we compare shampoo and sets. It can be scary looking back and realising the past is getting further and further away. Reminiscing will consume me in my later years I’m sure. After regaling my grandchildren with stories about life in the ‘olden days’, I’ll say to them, “Your mummies each had Little Lucy Willow Jack and Molly Bed when they were growing up,” and they will lead me upstairs to their bedrooms and say “Do you mean these Grandma?” Some things age much better than we do…