So what kind of holiday did I have?

A quiet one.

It was a very nice hotel. For some strange reason it was full of people from Norn Iron [for you foreigners, that’s Northern Ireland, but that’s the way they pronounce it and who am I to argue?]. Maybe they were all trying to escape their new smoking ban? We were all of a respectable age. There were a few children in their thirties, but they behaved themselves.

On the first night, when the locals had been thrown out, about thirty of us got a little merry and started on about the Good Old Days. Someone put some Beatles on the CD player and someone else brought out a huge stash of Mary Jane and soon the entire pub was awash with nostalgia and the smell of pot.

Do you honestly think that we older folk spend our time moaning about arthritis and pretending we can’t hear anything? That’s just an act to get you younger folk to run around and fetch and carry for us. We know how to enjoy ourselves once you are in bed.

I think it was Megan from Belfast who was the first to get carried away, in the middle of Strawberry Fields. Off came the clothes and the next thing we were celebrating the Sixties in style. Anyone who wasn’t p*ss*d was high. And anyone who wasn’t high was p*ss*d. and a few of us were both.

The following morning was a bit confusing, as quite a few woke up in strange bedrooms and had trouble finding the breakfast room. No one minded because we all put it down to failing memory [hah!].

As the young people were around again, we had to revert to the walking sticks, and the limps and the hard-of-hearing act, but we didn’t mind. We had the evening to look forward to again.

You young people haven’t a clue how to enjoy yourselves.