As you grow older there are some things you resist because they are associated with being over the hill and you want to be thought of as still actively short of the summit.

One of them came through the letter-box this morning, addressed to 'The Occupier', as though I had been robbed of my identity. Straight in the bin.

Other unsolicited correspondence is more sinister. Someone out there knows you are over sixty and has decided to target you with all sorts of bumf that assumes you are poor or incapacitated or both.

I'm sure there are people who need stair lifts, and I feel for them in their pain and discomfort, but pictures of Dame Thora Hird riding one with a smile on her face like the Queen at Trooping the Colour used to make me groan. Part of this reaction is due to my paternal grandmother's energy.

Only months before her death she was scuttling about like a 20-year-old and in her eighties she would catch a train to London to visit her daughters.

This was when an octogenarian was supposed to have given in to age and moved about more slowly, if at all. I like to think that she was showing an example to her peers and sending a signal to future generations.

There was a famous Punch cartoon which showed a Scout dragging a reluctant pensioner across the road in pursuit of his Good Citizen badge.

The woman's pride, of course, had triumphed over her appearance of vulnerability.

This reminds me of a joke by the Jewish comedian Jackie Mason. A Yiddish mother is struggling up a beach and shouting, 'Help, help - my son, the doctor, is drowning'. More evidence of pride's invincibility in an extreme situation.

Did you laugh or smile? I'm often at a loss to decide what is funny about some of today's stand-up comedians, and my po-faced expression at their jokes is another example of resisting the idea that I am being excluded. I'm older so I don't understand.

None of the younger generation seems to like Tommy Cooper, Spike Milligan and their ilk, who never swore or mentioned lavatories to get a laugh (though had 'blue' versions of their acts), unlike today's crop, who cannot get through a routine without referring to a condom.

There's a comedian at a hi-fi store I phoned recently. He told me it was no longer possible to obtain a stylus for my expensive Bang and Olufsen machine (well, it was expensive in 1987) and therefore I wouldn't be able to play my LPs any more.

When I protested that this was (a) probably not true and (b) deplorable if it were true, I gained the distinct impression of someone at the other end of the line mouthing the words, 'Go and mix yourself a mug of Complan, you old git!'

The implication, again, is that times have moved on and you are living in the past, when Messrs Bang and Olufsen believed their turntables would revolve for ever and a comic could raise a laugh just by wearing a fez.

Pride, of course, usually evaporates whenever society is granting oldies the pleasure of discounted prices and they travel free on buses to make their 10%-off purchases.

However, the other day I did wait patiently behind an old lady while she counted out her fare for the bus driver.

I did wonder if she was aware of concessionary travel and would appreciate being informed by one who knows, but I didn't want to risk being hit broadside by a stout wicker basket.

The only drawback of free bus travel is that you are often riding in a vehicle whose passengers haven't paid a penny for the ride, and this can be the most chill reminder that one day we will all catch the No 67 to oblivion.

But at least I'll be dressed as I want to - in a pair of cheap jeans and a Flintstones T-shirt, exactly what I'm wearing as I write this column - and not as some fashion editor would like me to be seen - in a cardigan, non-iron cavalry twill slacks and a pair of sensible brogues.