I hate the idea of growing old. I’m not vain about it. It’s not the greying hair or the deepening of wrinkles that bother me. It’s the weakness. The infirmity. The slowness. The failing of body and spirit. I see it in myself now and I hate it with a passion. I have achieved nothing of note in my supposedly best years. what chanc of achievement when my mind and body are fragile, wasted shells?

All those stories where immortal people angst on about what they’ve lost and how terrible their extended lives are? Wah, wah, shut the fuck up.

Which is my introduction to this cartoon about a stair lift. Enjoy.

“What’s say we open this baby up and see what she can really do?”