But doddering as we are, somehow between our community service work, trips to the gym, hiking, painting, gardening and travelling we still we manage to enjoy a rich social life.
We are so elderly that we’re no longer allowed to even donate blood.
Then I decided to become a writer and cut my teeth learning to write romance novels, screenplays and radio plays while editing night school brochures to pay the bills. The learning curve was steep and lonely, and the winter days were long and dark that year.
Then one cold, rainy November Friday a friend called and asked if I’d like to go with her to India.
Unless it’s pouring with rain we park at the top and take our time ambling down it, drinking in the vista of forests and rice fields.
If the weather is fine, a bright display of rainbow penjors has been raised to greet us.
The career options open to me were nurse, teacher or secretary, to be followed by matrimony and babies in the suburbs, in a house behind a white picket fence. My father relocated our family to rural Malaysia in 1968, after which I developed a serious addiction to Third World travel.