Who Will You Be In Seventeen Years?

That's him! The man I want to be when I'm 58. I'm staring adorably at him from across the other side of the cafe. He's slightly mole-like, kind looking, with the type of smile that lights up a fried breakfast. He leans casually on the table and converses with his fellow brunchers in a way that exudes Parisian laissez faire, or Cornish 'matter-do-a?'. His shoulders appear light and burden free. He wears his glasses on top of his head, sports a borderline eccentric moustache and a brow furnished with 'good-time' creases. The top it all it's a Friday and he's not working. But wait...oh knackers! 

He's got his shirt tucked tightly into his trousers. It's not him after all. I sigh deeply and turn my attention back to the black pudding.