Without the least disrespect to Roger Daltrey, a flag-bearer for My Generation, I never wanted to die before I got old. And now I have made it: the sun has set on 64 and I am officially old, 65 today.
What do I know at 65 that I did not know half a century ago, at 15?
France 2 usefully reminded me that Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, was made on the eve of my birthday.
I know now, as I did then, that he was a great man. He would today be pleased with what has been achieved, but also frustrated at the slow pace of progress towards a complete end to discrimination. And after watching a documentary on Arte last night, I know also that there is little to choose between the Taliban and US racists.
I know I have been a fitter 64-year-old than was my poor old dad, who failed by a few months to reach his 65th.
If you had told me at 15 that I'd end up playing badminton, I'd have laughed. And if you'd said I'd still be playing in 2013, I'd have laughed again.
I know now that I am unlikely to see Sunderland AFC win another meaningful trophy in my lifetime. At 15, I'd have said it was only a matter of time (and I'd have been right, since the 1973 FA Cup Final came later).
Today, I know I should have concentrated at school. But towards the back end of my career, I am content with what I have achieved.
I know now that newspapers, real newspapers, are living on borrowed time. In 1963, I'd have guessed that they'd go on for ever. I'd never have guessed that half a century from then, Britain would be preparing to lock up more journalists than a banana republic.
In 1963, I had no awareness of having lived under a Labour government, since Clement Attlee did not consider one-to-three-year-olds needed to be addressed. In 2013, I know that for all their faults, Labour governments are the sort I want to be in power.
At 15, I knew the Beatles were already huge and that pop music, which had for me been overwhelmingly American, would never be the same again.
I did not know at 15 that I'd fall in love with folk music before the end of the 1960s and maintain that love for the next 40+ years.
No one could have persuaded the 15-year-old Colin Randall he'd move away from the North East of England, let alone live for spells in France and Abu Dhabi and never permanently return.
In 1963, I had no idea where my first proper girlfriend was coming from. I certainly did not know I'd end up marrying a Frenchwoman without whom I'd be lost.
Nor did I have any inkling that I'd lose most of my hair. Or that I probably hated, properly hated, more people then, being young, than I would 50 years on (thinking only of individuals I actually know, the list stops at about two).
Without adopting the Daltrey philosophy, which even he abandoned sharply enough once singing about it had made him very rich, I would have expected to be retired on or about my 65th birthday. I know now I shall work in some way or other until I am physically incapable.
As I enter my 66th year, I thank heaven for my wife, daughters, granddaughter, brother, sister and friends. And I urge all those coming up behind with a similar milestone of their own coming soon to expel any thought that age necessarily equates to state of mind.
* The photos are of the night sky from my home in the Var on August 28; Joelle, my wife; Maya, our granddaughter; Nathalie, younger daughter (Maya's maman) with the coach of Toulon women's team before a friendly match; elder daughter Christelle and, with a (not my) boat in Cavalaire, me.
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