The prospect of growing old always horrifies me. Or at least it did until today when I decided that I will live in a caravan in a wood with an enormous slavering gundog called Goering and a double-barrelled shotgun. I will hunt rabbits and grow vegetables. Every so often I shall trap and kill a family of tiresome middle class walkers, (like the ones we passed today, with a whiney-voiced, soft bellied dad imploring a child in severe need of a proper boy's haircut and afflicted with the name 'Bailey', to attend properly to their silly little designer dog). I will smoke their muesli-fattened haunches in my shed and I put their meat into little pots labelled "Organic free-range smoked rare breed longpig". And I will make twee patchwork cushion covers out of their Boden separates and organic hemp designer babyslings and sell the cushion covers and the meat to the gullible at farmer's markets so I can make enough money to spend the first three months of the year in Sri Lanka. Sorted.