Mr Dylan is on the record player.
That's what we do down here on the carpet as the days lengthen and the years shrink.
We measure our days between walks and tea time, with perhaps the odd bark at the neighbours in between.
All the time there are Dylan songs rolling around our shaggy heads.
People around me are being put out to pasture like old horses.
But I tell myself I'm not ready to stand around and eat grass all day.
I've still got something to say, people to talk to, truths to expose, keyboards to smash, empires to shake.
I can still do this.
But my wrist hurts when I turn it to the left.
My back seizes up and my thighs feel like knotted ship rope after a day on a schooner rounding the cape.
If I stand up too quickly my head swims. I'm dreading the day I have to get up on the roof and clean the gutters out.
Worst of all, I can only drink two glasses of Ladies Who Shoot Their Lunch before I fall asleep.
I've been told old age creeps up on you like a shadow - in the morning it's not there. By late afternoon it's right in front of you. At night, it's all there is.
All these cheery thoughts have been floating around like old champagne corks ever since two of my oldest friends announced they were about to eat grass in the paddock.
When I say oldest, I mean I have known them longer than anyone else on the planet. But they are both younger than me and they are now retired.
One was a geography lecturer who just could not wait to permanently step off the annual bus trip to a remote rock formation with a horde of drunken 20-somethings.
The other was a student engagement officer who spent his time engaging with 20-somethings who were more interested in engaging with each other.
I can see why they want to eat grass in the paddock.
From the central lane of commuter rush-hour it looks very tasty indeed. I can even smell the cut grass, the Roquefort and wine, and the fresh sea air.
The word retirement conjures up many things. For some it's golf and Mediterranean cruises.
For others it's gardening and books.
For me it's playing ear-shattering guitar, drinking shiraz champagne and pretending I'm 25.
But I already do that.
So what is there to retire from - apart from life?
Anyway, me and Prince Finski are still on the carpet, waiting for tea and listening to Mr Dylan.
It's not dark yet. But it's getting there.