In three days I'll be 70 whole years old. I don't know how to regard this: grim, one year closer to the grave, or miraculous, I'm still here, even if I am creeping about in my elastic knee-bandage. I had to put it on for my dog walkie . That's the trouble with being 70. You'd like to run, climb trees, dig the garden, dance and skip up and down stairs, but it hurts.

Poor Fielding loves running. He used to run four miles four times a week. Last month he felt really good. "I'm going to run up a hill," he decided.

And he did. A bit. Then ping! went his hamstring. No wonder some older persons are drinking more than the permitted amount, which seems rather measly anyway. I drank four times more on Saturday, but I was at my pre-birthday dinner party with chums and we all rather overdid it, which helped us to forget our impairments: irregular heartbeats, poorly knees, high blood pressure, Sjögren's syndrome, indigestion, arthritis, un-bendy back, tinnitus, trigger-finger and mild Murray Valley fever virus. I discovered yesterday that Rosemary, 74, is deaf as a post.

I rang her doorbell and phone and battered at her door until the neighbours rose up in protest. Was she dead indoors? No. I broke in and there she was, tottering about the garden.

But I don't want to throw you all into a grump. We all vary. Toad, the party host, 63, can still stand on his head, and Olga, 69, after a lifetime of yoga, cycling and pottery, can do anything. Last week she tore off my garage roof and ripped out Daughter's fitted wardrobe. Our cooking is divine, our jokes brilliant, we've been friends for ever and still are. So it's cup half-full. Hanging on, and still having fun, fun, fun.