Terry Prone: Don't tell me age is just a number — it is an assault on the body

Without warning, my legs failed. They seemed to fail at the knees, dumping me on my ass in a puddle

'It takes me a minute to cop to his message. He is offering to assist me across the road. No, take that again. He. Wants. To. Help. Me. Cross. The. Road.'

Glorious summer day, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders as I cross Adelaide Road in Dublin. I wait for the line of cars coming from the city to pass. Then one driver, infused with sun-kindness, halts and gives me a little beep when I send her a surprised thumbs-up.

Up to the traffic lights, then, feeling positive towards the world, as one has to on a good day in Dublin. From somewhere in the middle distance comes a random collective shout that has to be located in the Viking Splash vehicle filled with horn-helmeted visitors. A rolled eye from someone standing waiting with me to cross. That knowing self-affirming cynicism that’s a speciality of this country: Sure God help them, doesn’t take much to amuse a tourist.