Retired, 'ave yer?" I'm often asked by old taxidrivers, frequently followed by, "I last 'eard yer in Edmonton in 1958." "Certainly not," I tell them. "At Christmas I was at Ronnie Scott's for four weeks and am seldom in bed before 3.30am!"

Retirement with pipe, slippers and a devoted spaniel so often leads to the solemn undertaker ringing the chiming bell. It's not for me, though I need more help than I used to. Most of my work these days is with my bandleader, Digby Fairweather. Like me, he doesn't drive, but asks one of his Hot Six to pick me up and take me to the gig.

If, as usual, it is our energetic drummer Nick at the wheel, he likes to get there very early to drink what he calls "a meditative pint" and discuss music with some of the others of more advanced taste. I go for a walk, drink a couple of Irish whiskeys and, near the witching hour, swallow a couple of Pro Plus, the idle student's friend on the night before an important exam.

Two numbers from the band and then I hobble on with my stick. Once there, as an exhibitionist since the cradle, I bask in the applause (full house only every night at Scott's). Of course, when I was a young and no-holds-barred performer, not only did I sing, but I cavorted around the stage. I am now, of necessity, chairbound, but somehow the audience understands why my early signature tune Good Time George has been replaced by O'Rocking Chair. Older members of the audience wallow in nostalgia, remembering when they were young too. Most younger people are curious to see what grandad went for in his day, and are sometimes won over. I love it all.

Sometimes, if Digby has overdone the vodka and me the Irish, we have a ding-dong afterwards. I say that some arrangements for my numbers are too heavy or clever; he points out that it's his band. Next morning we compete to get on the telephone first to apologise, for we love and need each other.