The Black Pot

Q stands up. “A very astute man once made the observation: ‘What a drag it is getting old’. And I have to say I agree. Your body aches, your eyesight deteriorates, and you start to go deaf.” He nods at Reg. “Your clothes don’t fit and you forget things. Who wants to go through all that? Not me. No thanks.” He shakes his head. “Growing old gracefully is an oxymoron if you ask me. Not that I want to live forever,” Q frowns. “I don’t think I would anyway. Unless it would be possible to read everything I wanted to before I died.” He sighs. “No, I just don’t see how that could work. I think living forever would be bloody boring. I got a few extra years, even though I didn’t ask for them. I’ll take what I’ve got and hope I die before I get old. Or at least before I start to wear my pants on my head.” He sits back down, brooding.