MY great-grandad was one of those perky little chaps who always had a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye, a bit like Eric Morecambe but without the Bentley.

He always wore a shirt and tie; he always had a full biscuit tin and a ready supply of sherry for visitors; and he always laughed at even the feeblest of jokes, although this could have been more to do with his increasing deafness rather than his innate love of knock-knock gags (I was six, I thought I was hilarious, so sue me).

He was also a bit of a grafter. While others of his age were happy to put their feet up and watch the wrestling/racing/sheep dog trials on the telly (this was when we only had three channels, and they were all rubbish), he was happier to keep active.

It wasn't until his health began to fail at the age of 84 that he finally had to throw in the towel. In his case, a bar towel (he'd been working in his local pub).

But his insistence on keeping working, keeping active and keeping going is something that has stuck with me over the years. While I think there has to come a point in our lives when the Government coughs up a pension for us, I'm not sure this should coincide with the end of our working lives.

The thought of retiring at 60, 65 or even 68 is not something that fills me with joy. I don't like gardening, I'm not a coffee morning kinda gal and there are only so many coach trips I can stand before running amok amongst my fellow passengers with a loaded weapon.

I like working, and I think a bit of work does you good, whatever your age. It gives your days structure and purpose and a compelling reason for getting out of the bed in the morning (more compelling than watching an Alan Titchmarsh programme and knitting another tea-cosy, anyway).

This post-retirement work doesn't have to be paid labour I'm not suggesting that we should have OAPs digging ditches and hoisting hods it can also be a few hours of regular voluntary work.

Retirement should be a time for re-evaluation. If we want to put our feet up for a well-deserved rest, that's fine. But if we want to carry on working, social and bureaucratic barriers should not bar our way.

There are always exceptions, of course. How old is John Prescott again?


WHEN people talk about an event being a bit of a bun fight, they don't normally mean that otherwise fair-minded folk were literally scrapping over cakes. But those people have obviously never been to Ryedale Festival of Food & Drink.

While no actual fisticuffs took place, at least not while I was surveying this scene of rampant foodie-ism, there was a surprising amount of pushing and shoving and general jostling. And it wasn't just the buns that caused a kerfuffle, although there were some cakes I would happily have punched a nun for if I hadn't been the cool, calm, collected individual that I am. There was complete chaos at every available trestle table, from posh beers to stinky cheeses and cinder toffee.

After five minutes in the posh beers, stinky cheese and cinder toffee tent I admit I began to feel a little faint, although that could have been more to do with the fancy fudge I had almost over-dosed on earlier in the day.

After the kids had been battered around their heads again I counted seven new lumps and bumps each when we got home by yet another shopper wielding a plastic bag stuffed full of old-fashioned preserves in heavy glass jars with gingham lids and organic veg with mucky roots, we decided a hurried escape was needed.

So we shoved the kids under a loose tent flap and headed for the lakeside caf at Castle Howard for a much-needed sit down and a snack.

Unfortunately, our needs were just too fancy for this fancy food festival. We could get wild boar sausages, champagne jam and chocolates hand-moulded by blind virgins in the Outer Hebrides (one of those examples isn't entirely true), but we couldn't get a glass of milk for love nor money.