Grumpy Old Superman

73 year old Davie Greendale felt like a spring chicken.

It was due to a mix up at a Specsavers eye-test where he’d accidentally come home with a pair of rose-tinted glasses.

Despite making him look effeminate, his magic specs gave him the power to live in his own romanticised version of the past whenever he put them on. This was brilliant because Davie hated the present. Nothing in modern times was as good as it had been when he was young. Not music, football or politics. All had been ruined by snowflakes and EU legislation. Society had lost it’s way and the telly was now full of bloody women.

Everyone said how much jollier he had become since getting them. Whenever he put them on his world became suffused with dappled sunlight and he could hear the drowsy sounds of childhood. The weather was always an old-fashioned 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

The only problem with his magic specs was that when he took them off he became marooned in 2019, taking 13 pills a day and watching programmes about moving to Australia.

So he wore them all the time.

One morning he looked in the mirror to admire his lustrous mane of brown hair and set off for his golf club, passing his grandson reading the library book “The Boy’s guide to go-kart building” and his granddaughter whose hair was in neat plaits.

His wife Sandra, who resembled a young Julie Christie, was busy with house work. He left his front door open because you could in these days and drove off to his Golf Club.

He was looking forwards to sinking some Watney’s Red Barrel with pals Michael Caine and Sean Connery and to also sinking the winning putt at the 18th, again.

He hadn’t driven far when he spied the jolly neighbourhood bobby PC Potter on the road ahead, no doubt busy watching out for young hooligans and helping old ladies to cross roads. He was surprised when the corpulent constable responded to his merry wave with a halt signal.

“Please read the number plate on the car in front” said PC Potter.

“Certainly officer” replied Davie, glancing at a pink Rolls Royce, “FAB 1”, he declared confidently.

“Would you mind taking your sunglasses off sir” Said the officer sighing. Davie did so and looked at the vehicle, now a dirty white Ford Focus. He stared vaguely at it’s unintelligible numberplate.

Gill Potter of the traffic police hated this beat, reprimanding the old Coffin-Dodgers who drove around as though they were Stirling Moss, whoever he was. She was relieved when the old buffer’s wife arrived, driven by her daughter, with bi-racial dreadlocked grandson and phone addicted granddaughter in tow.

“Oh Davie” said the old lady “You left the front door wide open again! What are we to do with you?”

Davie regarded her blankly, she no longer resembled Julie Christie. He was led away gently, back to his house.

Where “A Place In The Sun” was just starting.