The human race has an unhealthy obsession with age. It’s an understandable preoccupation. With every ticking second, we’re hurtling towards the inevitability of the grave or being scattered over the Indian Ocean from an urn, as this columnist has instructed his family. My preference would have been having whatever organs can be salvaged extracted (good luck with liver, kidneys and pancreas) before being taken to a butcher and having the meat dropped out of a chopper over the Hluhluwe Game Reserve to provide some lucky hyena with a scrumptious “leg of man” Sunday lunch. But I married and sired squeamish stock...