What does it feel like to be consigned to history?

What indeed, and why do I ask you might say. Well, I’ll tell you.

I have had a couple of instances over the the last few years when it has been implied that my life experiences could be of historical interest to the wider society.

What, you might ask, are you dead already? No I would answer.

Well then, you might ask, are you approaching that time of life when people give you their seat for fear that a jolt on the bus could cause you to break your spindly, old lady bones and subsequently require a hip replacement operation? I sincerely hope not, I would answer, although I have always been a bit spindly.

So, as you weren’t there at the time, these were the questions I asked myself when I recovered from the shock news that I was no longer young and happening and, let’s face it, the fact that I have just used the phrase “young and happening”  demonstrates that I am not young and the only thing that’s happened to me recently is that some fool has told me I’m history.

So there I was, having blotted out previous requests to tell the world about my interesting and archaic childhood, staring at a new appeal for memories of working in the olden days before computers were commonplace when people had to use, can you believe it, things like paper and pen.

Well of course my first response was “Oh fuck off” shortly followed by “Just kill me now, stuff me and stick me in a museum”  but then I thought, hang on a minute, didn’t I write a story based on my early childhood in inner city Birmingham in the 1960s? What a hypocrite I am! Well yes I am and I don’t care. They’re my memories and I’ll use them when and how I want to thank you very much.

That’s the trouble with us oldies, we can be quite cantankerous when we feel like it. I hope you enjoy the story, it’s called ‘All That Glitters’ and if you don’t, who gives a shit?