Whisky Magazine Issue 56
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Michael Jackson contemplates not so old age
Will you still love me when I'm 64? By the time you read this, I will be. In fact, since I wrote those two sentences, I am.
At the beginning of the year, I noted in my diary, alongside a certain date in March: “Will you still love me? Etc.” Most writers of regular columns keep diaries of future topics. As you get older, the trick lies in remembering to consult the list. Did I forget my own birthday? I can't remember. Looking back at my year-planner, I seem to have returned from New York to London that day, only to head back across the Atlantic a week or 10 days later.
At least one of my several crossings of the Atlantic in recent months has been to collect a Lifetime Achievement Award. I don't intend to sound blasé about such honours, which mean a great deal to me.
It is, as you may have suspected, the word ‘lifetime' that worries the recipients of these otherwise welcome tributes.
Our lives are not yet over, and we hope that neither are our achievements. I refer to those of us who are sufficiently bold and braggartly to believe that we have achieved something or other, even if we are not quite sure what.
The British do not like bigheads, and have almost a reverence for modesty. Some people claim proudly to have no achievements, except perhaps the considerable attainment of a happy marriage and healthy children.
Many women, and some men, insist they are not competitive. I don't believe them.
After a season or three in the rose garden, they will try to murder the...