Our old people’s travel cards do not open the barriers at Gatwick airport train station. My wife flashes me an I-told-you-so look, because she told me so, shortly after we left the house. Things have not started well, and we’re still a long way from Spain.
“Zones one through six only,” the guard says, in a weary, patronising sing-song. This, I realise, is what being old is like: they give you free stuff, and then snatch it away so they can treat you like a moron. The guard suggests the possibility of fining us £100 each, but his heart’s not in it. He sees idiots like us all day long.
