THIRTY nine is a wonderful age to be - stick with it, Helen Mead. The best years of a woman's - and a man's - life are between 39 and 40. Jack Benny lived more than half his life at that age. And I'm on the way to doing the same. I've just celebrated - if that's the right word - the 32nd anniversary of my 39th birthday.

Anyway, Helen, you should thank your lucky stars that you were born an Aquarian, and share your star sign with so many other great writers: Charles Dickens, Robert Burns, Somerset Maugham, Virginia Woolf, Francis Bacon, Norman Mailer, Keith Waterhouse, and Christopher Marlowe - no, as much as I'd like it to be, we're not related. Well, I don't think so.

Of course, as any septuagenarian will tell you, when you reach the brandy, coffee and mint course of life's dinner party, you are liable to suffer lapses of memory and mental aberrations. Keith Waterhouse, born in 1929 and 72 today, must have suffered one when writing his February article for Saga: Down With Birthdays. In it he says: "If only I had been born a few days later I should not have to celebrate my next birthday until 2004." This leads me to believe that Keith might have written his article after one of his protracted champagne and fish and chip lunches.

Like Keith, I try to forget my birthdays, which seem to arrive sooner each year. Yet, it's always nice to be remembered by others when they do. Last week, I received a delightful birthday card from the Evening Press's first lady of letters. Thank you for your kind words, Margaret.

'RUSSELL Watson's singing was great," enthused disabled Jean on returning from a rare outing to the Barbican, "But the orchestra nearly spoilt it for me - it was much too loud and overpowering. One thing that needs to be sorted out is the car parking for Orange Badge holders attending the Barbican. There are only about five spaces, and they were all filled when we arrived, and some of the cars weren't displaying badges.

"The Kent Street car park across the road was no better, all the spaces marked for the disabled were filled, some by unauthorised vehicles, and there was no parking attendant to be seen."

"But Bob did eventually manage to find somewhere to park," I replied.

"Oh, yes, but if we ever go again, we'll need to arrive earlier."

Less abled theatregoers might like to note for future reference.

PREDICTABLY, the loss of the council rubbish container from the bus stop atop Foxwood Lane has resulted in drinks' cans, food packaging, and sundry unmentionables littering the area. But worse: the removal of the waste paper bank from the Foxwood shops has caused salvageable paper to be dumped in waste bins and, would you believe it, under garden hedges! Of course, the latter might have been free newspapers, intended for delivery to households. When is it going to be realised that we can't go on forever filling holes in the ground with recyclable rubbish?

AVM 'Johnnie' Johnson's obituary (February 1) stirred an old memory: Germany, 1952, and RAF Wildenrath's first CO, Group Captain J. E. Johnson, fresh from operations in Korea, was inspecting No. 54 Field Squadron, recently equipped with Land-Rovers. Johnnie wanted a trial run, so he and our second in command got into a Land-Rover, and with our top driver, Jarrett, at the wheel the vehicle hurtled down the runway at rubber-burning speed.

"Slow down, Jarrett, we've got the station commander aboard," screamed the quaking second ic. "Oh, no you don't, Jarrett, let her rip," shouted the ace fighter pilot above the roar of the engine, "this is better than flying Spitfires!"

Rest you well, brave sir.