We all hate Alexa, right? She sits there in the corner, as if she’s minding her own business. And we think her ‘business’ is to play us the radio channel of our choice, the album which springs to mind, a weather report that will be fucking awful. Whereas her actual ‘business’ is spying for Beijing. She reports directly to President Xi, who listens to every conversation we have, eager to learn what we’re making for dinner, when the car needs charging, how Mel is struggling (again) to work out an Amazon return, even though she’s done 3 every day since the first lockdown.

And no-one likes a spy. An eavesdropper. Yet here I am in the kitchen with Wishbone Ash playing loudly behind me. I finished The Groundhogs playlist whilst preparing lunch. The old vinyl albums are somewhere in the loft. I’ve tried sticking one in the Sony SoundBar but it won’t fit. But the Chinese can play it for me without any bother. So, it would seem, resistance is futile.

Been lucky this weekend. At 10.25 yesterday morning the torrential rain just stopped. We play at 10.30, and we did. Then as I was back, about 100 yards from home, the heavens opened again. The courts dry quickly, leaving just 2 slippery patches. One each, which was nice. Thus I hit a ball, looked up to see no opponent. Spurs Paul had vanished! He slipped on his ‘wet patch’ and gone over. He was fine. I know you’re concerned. As you should be. He’s no youngster. He got up, we played on. And I thought: it’s much better to fall over whilst running round a tennis court than when getting out of bed at 3 am to go to the toilet. Young person’s fall, old person’s fall.

Which I mention just because today I am officially 68 years old. Which accounts for listening to The Groundhogs, Wishbone Ash, etc. Then I realised that with age comes experience. And thus, in this morning’s tennis, I used that extra ‘maturity’ and ‘statesmanship’(?) as Spurs Paul isn’t 68 for 3 weeks. Whippersnapper. Yet it’s only when you write it down that ‘68’ takes on meaning. That meaning being ‘Jesus!! That’s fucking old!!!!’

But heh, you’re as young as you feel, right?? And how I feel depends on the time of day, or night, and how many cars I’ve washed, lawns I’ve mowed, tennis matches I’ve played. Can feel 25, can feel 107. And I can still get into my lovely, age-inappropriate car. Just takes a little longer.

Happy Birthday and Happy Father’s Day

A xxxx