Tomorrow, I will be a hundred and seven. Well, it feels that way. When I am a hundred and seven, I will look back at this and scoff, of course. "No, no," I will say to myself across time itself, "this feels like being a hundred and seven. What you're thinking of is feeling tired and achy from excessive laying of patios, which is, let me assure you, young man, a breeze in comparison. Where's my cocoa?"
To which I reply, "Look, you crazy old bastard, I've been trying in vain to unblock our drains for the last couple of hours, up way above my elbow in shit, and I could quite do without being condescended to by my older self. The reason I feel like I'm a hundred and seven is that, what with the drain situation and my lack of a rubber suit, I smell like you probably smell all the time. Furthermore, piss off."
Anyway, I'm thirty-one tomorrow. Woo.