“G’day Roly, nice to see you. How’re you doin’?”

“Oh, hey—hi!

“How am I?

“Thanks for asking.

“Well, let me put it this way: I’m still vertical, but limping like a trussed-up disco diva with a broken heel. Still flipping the bird unintentionally, thanks to my impulsive trigger finger demonstrating a psychotic personality of its own and harbouring deep resentment for any kind of polite company.

“My joints?

“Do you know they’ve formed a Brazilian samba band called Snap, Crackle e Pop? They rehearse enthusiastically every time I stand up or sit down. My Achilles tendon thinks it’s auditioning for MasterChef: Flambé Edition, and my prostate’s grown so large it’s wobbling and lobbying for its own seat in Parliament. Talk about MMP, I pee like a rogue beehive sprinkler—unpredictable, enthusiastic, but mostly inconvenient.

“There’s a lipoma on my back that’s so prominent, I’ve started charging it board. It’s got its own postcode and occasionally receives mail, you know. Quasimodo and I exchange grubby bump pics now and then across the internet, and he’s promised to teach me how to become a campanologist if I ever get to Notre Dame.

“I fart, belch, wheeze and shit like a one humped camel with lactose regrets, and I sprinkle and drop ibuprofen like it’s paprika, all the while my left knee taps achy sweet nothings in Morse code into my cauliflower ears—mostly rickety threats of instability.

“But despite all that. Despite the pain, I hit the gym four times a week. I’ve dropped 30 kilos over the last little while, and my eyesight’s sharper than my daughter’s sarcasm. My hearing’s so good I can pick up gossip about my limp, my hump, wet patch, and my bird-flipping rudeness from right across the room.

“So yeah—I’m thriving. Honestly, I am. There’s just a lot more creaking, leaking, a lot more laughing through my tears, and one helluva lot more character. Inflammation and pain might be the gate-crashing my party, but I’ve started to dance with them—badly, but energetically. I’m doing it in style!      

“I love getting old – don’t you?

“…By the way, how are you?”

My hump, my hump, my hump,

I love my fatty lump

Black-eyed Peas – sort of