The ‘stream of consciousness’ post used to be my big thing; these days, just staying conscious is enough.  I have shortened my posts, not because I have less to say, but because I have ever fewer who want to hear it and, in relation to the author, least said the better seems to be the way.  The tales that I have to tell have become slightly less fanciful, whilst reality has tended to step up to the plate and fill in the gaps.  My life, in general, is quieter than a stag weekend in a Trappist Monastery.  If I’m honest, there is far less to me than meets the eye.

One of the most notable things about getting on is that you begin to expect far less from life, although you do tend to get even more grumpy when it doesn’t manage to live up to even your most meagre expectations.  It becomes increasingly difficult to understand when dramatically lowered aspirations are not attained.  The fact that I no longer have any confidence in my ability to become James Bond doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to do the audition.  I might not look like Daniel Craig when I get out of the shower – to be honest, I’ve never really mastered that whole ‘tying a hand towel round the waist’ thing – but I’m pretty certain I could match him martini for martini given the chance, providing, of course, there was somewhere to wee nearby.

And that’s something in which I bet I could outdo Bond, Q, M and any other letter you might care to choose, on all occasions: location of the nearest Public Toilets.  I could probably go on Mastermind.  Take my age and factor in a dodgy prostate: there are some things you just have to know.  Picture the scene: I am tied to a chair being force fed Timothy Taylor’s Landlord* through a funnel, with Blofeld’s voice grating in my ear, “Very well Mr McQueen, we are going to release you into the local shopping mall just as soon as your bladder has reached what we term ‘explosive proportions’”.  I will smile up at him, even as his henchmen push down on my pelvis, because I know that in the dark recesses of the Marks & Spencer’s Food Hall, hidden away between a sandwich bar and a sushi stand, is a long-deserted public loo – decommissioned at the time of the last refit, but still usable once you have the knack of the dodgy flush.  Take that Blofeld!  The world is a safer place for Shopping Mall cleaners the world over.

But I digress.  As I was saying, I no longer allow myself to be dragged away from the main thrust of these little fol-de-rols: short, sharp and to the point, that is what I have become.  A social commentator, never deflected from the essential gist of the tale I have to tell.

If only I had one…

*A fine English Ale