So this evening after the munkins and their Mother put their collective heads down for a well earned session of sleep, I headed down to my local bar, with a nurtuned copy of The Economist in hand for a few beers and some intellectual stimulation.

I met a friend of mine, Tim, but he headed off in short order to leave me with my libation and cerebral stimulation.

A short while later, a young looking man walked in and sat next to me. He ordered a beer and was duely carded. As our bartender checked the document, he called out his birthdate.

"1983".

As is usual in these situations, I perform the mental gynanastics in my head and decalare myself older than Lazarus.

Then he turns to me.

"Do you know where I can score any weed?"

Maybe I need to get my hair cut.