A chara, – I’m 78 this month, can still tie my shoelaces and remember the name of several world leaders. I can also walk five miles without gasping and can drive a car from Manchester to Cleggan without hitting anything on the way and nearly always in time for a good dinner at Foyle’s in Clifden.
I have a clean driving licence and in 58 years on the road have never had an accident that wasn’t somebody else’s fault.
But last month, faced with a tight timetable and having meetings at my house in Connemara with builders, I thought I might fly to Knock and hire a car.
I got the laptop out and, sweet as an autumn conker, I found the flights I wanted. The choice of car was easy: something small just for me and for 10 days. Extremely pricey but, in all, the package was a bit less than the ferry.
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All was going well until I typed in my age, 77. Suddenly there wasn’t a car to be found – not a one, not even a Morris Minor.
So I typed in 37 in the age box.
Wow! All of a sudden, the world was my ostrich!
I’d always seen Ireland as a place that respected age and experience; this seemed to me to smack of age discrimination. Or was it just Harding discrimination? Were they confusing me with the Michael that writes for this paper? Or were they just taking the Mick?
My only consolation is that one day they too will type in 77 and find all the cars in the West have gone to a parallel universe called Tír na nÓg and that Ireland is truly no country for old men. – Is mise,
MIKE HARDING,
Cleggan,
Co Galway.