There are those things in life that you wish you could stop doing (like eating and drinking too much) and those that you wish you could start doing (like keeping in touch with friends or keeping fit). In moments of weakness or alcohol-fuelled introspection we sometimes resolve to do something about these errors and omissions. However, this…
Festive hare pieces
There has been a debate going on in the greyhares' burrow1 as to exactly who we represent. The problem is that we have allied ourselves specifically to grey hares but within a fortnight of our launch, two difficulties have been raised - one cosmetic, the other seasonal. What do we do about those who dye…
The Great Pears Soap Disaster
It is one of those small comforts of the morning bath routine. The merest sniff has the power to transport me back to my childhood. A gentle, vaguely biscuity smell like the soft, warm aroma of the linen cupboard; the comforting concave oval shape with indents into which you can fit the old worn bar (waste not,…
Gentlemen who lunch
Men who learn to cook later on in life do so for a variety of reasons, either out of necessity (bereavement, divorce) or choice (curiosity, more time on their hands). In my neighbour Barry's case it was an ultimatum from his wife along the lines of, "if something happened to me, you'd starve." There is…
I name this blog..
At precisely 10.12 last Saturday evening (5 December) we were launched. After delivering a brief speech wishing well to all those who navigated in and around the good ship greyhares, Jeanette Reid clicked the 'blog visibility' button and we went live. Jeanette, grey haired and grey mattered (an Oxford physics graduate of the early 1960s), had won…
Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. It’s the silver surfer!
I hate the term silver surfer. It sounds vaguely sleazy. In my imaginary sitcom "Silver Surfer" the lead is a Terry Thomas sort of character; a know-all brilliantined cad in bow tie or cravat and blazer, propping up the golf club bar (and played so well by Eric Idle in the Monty Python sketch) .…
Talking ’bout my generation
It's no accident (except perhaps an accident of birth) that when Pete Townshend wrote My Generation in 1965, aged 20, he was referring to the postwar baby-boom generation. Despite the words of the song, I doubt he expected to die before he got old because, to quote a crusty member of the Old Generation, we had never had…