After Counterpoint

After the programme, my claque & I went to the nearby pub. Last time, it had been quiet and a bit dozy, a perfect geezers' pub. This time, after 9, it was invaded by young people, possibly from the Univ of Westminster, just around the corner. God, they were shrill, but shortly before I left, I had to make way for a very attractive young woman on the stairs. She thanked me, politely, and I found myself thinking, If I were twenty years younger ... but then completed the thought I'd still be much too old for her. As (pretentiousness kicking in) Jacques Brel said, mourir, cela n'est rien, mourir, la belle affaire, mais vieillir, o, vieillir ...