For the last many months, I've been going with Pat the Salt, my esteemed but getting-vaguer father-in-law, to his local Community Hall every Monday fore-noon. A group of maybe a dozen old timers - Pat is the oldest and I'm the youngest - meet to talk about local history and heritage. One of the old chaps has been a keen photographer since he was given a Box Brownie as a nipper. To pursue his Art, he's moved with the times through successive technologies and now is all digital. The photography has led to other aspects of computer-literacy and now he's offering to teach his peers to send e-mails. My Uncle mastered that and word-processing on his own at the age of 78 because he wanted to communicate with other people who had long ago thrown away their quill pens. The killer app for Old-wans is, of course, The Skype: talking to remote grand-children is just grand, even if the picture quality is kinda crappy.
As well as rarely saying thank-you, there was another thing I was certain-sure I was never going to do when I was growing up. As a navy-brat, there was no way on earth I was going to go to sea. I've often reflected from the Gates of Too Late that it wouldn't have been a bad life or a bad training.