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Now that dream was… depressing.
I was an old man, going to the same pub with the same friends as I’d had for countless years. We talked about the past, all the memories we had and the ones we’d lost, and we talked about the future and retirement and what on earth there might be to fill our time.
I wonder, in 30 or 40 years time, will that really be me? And what’s worse, will that situation have stopped scaring me; will I even enjoy it? Can I prevent it from happening? Should I prevent it from happening? And why, above all, does the prospect of growing old scare me?