Greybeard’s Lament Sitting in the cafe of an up-market supermarket retired couples make intermittent small-talk, all light rain-jackets, pseudo-fleeces and ‘Bags for Life’. Blending into one, their faces an amalgam where none are different. Yet hey have charted unplanned journeys through ungovernable seas like medieval explorers, faces full to the wind, Captains astride the decks of their ships. But that is too romantic, too far-fetched for a damp Tuesday morning somewhere in the North of England. Dangerously relaxed with fruit scones, I avoid the mirror and slouch deeper into the settee’s corner to practice cultivation. I strive to be more Pirate than Captain, feint an illusion to spring, vigour unbridled, cutlass brandished, steel flashing, readiness unquestioned. Eyeing me suspiciously Doreen clears used plates and cups clatteringly as if to say "Who are you kidding?" Crumbs and detritus hold us back as do questions about the weather and Two-For-One special offers. Burt Lancaster appears at my side - or doesn’t really as he’s unseen by Doreen - and says "Who are you kidding?! I was the ‘Real Deal’, from here to eternity… Or as close as." The extent of my gymnastics is bounded by the ‘i’ crossword and minor triumphs over harder Sudoku. They’re victories of sorts when sipping tea and eating scones in a supermarket cafe on a damp Northern Tuesday.