THE number of older people using social media doubled last year, according to research from Ofcom, the telecoms regulator.
So much for my efforts to get down with the kids.
WE recently went through a heatwave. It prompted The Current Mrs Feeney to buy a disposable barbecue and a couple of steaks. We lit the tray of lumpwood, and left it for the recommended 30 minutes to get hot, before putting on the steaks.
For the next ten minutes we stared at the raw meat, as it stubbornly refused to cook. Then TCMrsF took the steaks into the kitchen and fried them. Delicious.
THERE was quite a reasonable crowd for the lunchtime showing of Churchill (see review below). TCMrsF surveyed the heads in the rows in front of us. Most were as silvered as this writer’s.
“I’m too young to watch this film,” she said.
A reviewer in a film magazine, to which I subscribe, this month suggested that a movie she had just savaged would be “just the bill for those seniors’ matinees where the ticket comes with a cuppa and a biscuit.”
Patronising rubbish. Cinema goers who are over 60 are just as averse to watching crap as anybody else.
I READ in my morning newspaper that Italy’s anti-establishment Five Star Movement has intensified its rhetoric against migrants and Gypsies. Its leader described the inhabitants of Gypsy camps in Rome as thieves.
When TCMrsF had her purse stolen on the Roman metro this year, the charming carabinieri officer who took down her particulars explained to us, with a rueful smile, that the crime would, beyond doubt, have been carried out by a Roma child.
We are certain that it was actually committed by the bourgeois-looking couple who stood behind us on the train.
I HAVE always had a terrible memory for names. Not great for a journalist.
An acquaintance whom I had not met for at least 30 years bumped into me outside the supermarket. I was pretty sure that we had once played in the same football team, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember if he was called Ian (pronounced EE-ann) or Ieuan (pronounced Yi-ann). This matters in Wales.
I puzzled at it for hours, before it came to me with certainty. He was called Ivor.
AT TCMrsF’s request, I go through the cluttered drawer on my dressing table. Among the items no longer of any use, I find my mother’s and father’s bank cards. I cut them up and dispose of them.
More than a year after their deaths, moments of what is fashionably called “closure” continue to occur.