It’s my daddy’s birthday today. He’s 97. I mean… ninety-seven! His mate Lou phoned him last week. Lou is 106. And can still hold a phone. There’s a woman in my dad’s care home who is 105. These people send telegrams to the Queen wishing HER a happy birthday.

The secret of my father’s longevity? A lifelong (and continuing) passion for chocolate. When told by a doctor years ago that his cholesterol level was a touch high and suggested my dad cuts out chocolate, my father asked him why. Because you might live a few years longer. To which my dad replied, ‘yes, but it’ll feel like much much longer’. A pragmatist.

Morris, or ‘Moish’ as we all call him, was born in Whitechapel in 1924. To a poor family. All families were poor back then, otherwise he’d have been born in Finchley or Edinburgh. So you can’t attribute his long life to healthy eating, nor to balanced diet or anything else they try to suggest to us on a daily basis. When he joined the army, in 1942, the thing he most often talks about is the food they had. He loved it. Big meals every day and puddings. He loved those puddings.

As the years have gone on, his physicality has obviously become more frail. He no longer plays tennis. Nor football. His eyesight is terrible, almost non-existent, yet he reads the ‘paper’ every day. On his iPad, ‘stretched’ as big as it can be, and through a high-powered magnifying glass. Until about 5 years ago he was a regular caller to LBC phone-in radio station. Normally moaning that the Tories are just not Tory enough, but over 90 you hit that right-wing buffer and there’s no turning back. Particularly when the only paper available in the correct format for him is The Mail. Poor man has no chance.

His legs are weak, his back is bad, his heart underperforming and he falls asleep a lot. But his mind is razor sharp. He misses nothing. And he laughs a lot. He loves people. When the aged were allowed on the streets, back before 2020, he always talked to people on buses and trains. And his memory is excellent.

And today, his granddaughters are going round to surprise him with a birthday cake. Because they love him dearly. Not because he’s old. Not because he’s ancient. Not because he was the best grandfather anyone could ever wish for. But because he is a truly lovely old man.

Many happy returns, Moish, may you live another 97 years (that’s just an expression)

A xxxx