PATRICK VICKERY: 'Anything can happen...anything does happen'

A few years ago I shared a vol-a-vent with an ex First-Minister of Scotland and a few other extremely pleasant folk at a meal in Ayr where I discussed important matters of the moment such as ‘do you want that last tatty?’ or ‘are we getting any pudding?’

The day prior to this I was cleaning drains at one of the local garages in Tain during which I chatted raggedly to random folk about gardening, football and goats. It’s good to chat, irrespective of who you eat your tasty vol-a-vents with or encounter haphazardly beside drainage culverts.

Moving on from vol-a-vents and drains to the all-important issue of mouth-watering tray bakes, I was clearing a pond of clotted weed and paused for a moment to chew on one of those delicious pre-packed plaque-inducing processed flapjacks when I came across an embedded tooth in my tasty mouthful. What’s the world coming to, I surmised indignantly, when you find an embedded tooth in your flavorsome mouthful?

The fifth decade is when the rot sets in, heralding arthritic potential, flatulent splutterings and the faint haze of dawning cataracts, or so I was gleefully informed by a local doctor and bagpipe virtuoso at a Summer Gala in Tain who cheerfully revealed that the sixth decade is worse before he departed to the Events Arena to blow his pipes and squeeze his bag.

Then it dawned on me that it was my own tooth that had fallen out during the chewing process and nothing whatsoever to do with a lapse in supermarket quality control. Not only was this sufficient to deter me from chewing flapjacks for an extended period of time, but also an indicator that I was progressively crumbling.

Every day, of course, brings new challenges, not least the occasional malfunction as you glide seamlessly towards seniority, the chimes of time tapping maliciously at your shoulder. The fifth decade is when the rot sets in, heralding arthritic potential, flatulent splutterings and the faint haze of dawning cataracts, or so I was gleefully informed by a local doctor and bagpipe virtuoso at a Summer Gala in Tain who cheerfully revealed that the sixth decade is worse before he departed to the Events Arena to blow his pipes and squeeze his bag.

We are all immortal until one day we are not, a revelation best discussed amongst similar crumblies with diminishing presence while consuming copious amounts of home-made alcohol, mini-pizzas and dry roasted peanuts, our blazing cauldrons long since ebbed to a glimmering glow.

Patrick Vickery in Tain walking football mode

Karen Anderson's columns

Kerry Maciver's Across the Pond columns

Nicky Marr's columns

What is certain, however, is that none of us journey easily into old age. Despite this, life continues to provide unexpected pleasures no matter what decade of self-doubt and decrepitude you happen to inhabit, so I shall stride forward optimistically to meet any unprompted challenges that may befall me, blissfully ignorant of what might deteriorate, splutter or drop off next. Simple pleasures become important - a snooze by the fire, hanging onto your teeth, acquiring a good pair of reading glasses, conserving your dwindling assets and being more dog. That’s plenty to be going on with just now.

Anything can happen. Anything does happen.

Do you want to respond to this article? If so, click here to submit your thoughts and they may be published in print.