Back in the 1980s there was a widower who volunteered at the Age Concern day centre I was based at. Most days, he used his own car making multiple trips to bring several people in for lunch and take them home again in the afternoon. He was tall, over 6', slender in build. He was always perfectly turned-out, with razor-sharp trouser creases, an impeccably-knotted tie, and a fresh carnation in his buttonhole. He bore himself well, like a military man, and always had a friendly word for everyone.
I always assumed he was in his early seventies.
Turned out he was ninety-five. Born in the nineteenth century. Old enough to remember Queen Victoria's death.
Moral: wait until you get there; it might be better for you than you expect
I always assumed he was in his early seventies.
Turned out he was ninety-five. Born in the nineteenth century. Old enough to remember Queen Victoria's death.
Moral: wait until you get there; it might be better for you than you expect
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