"That's right, Mrs. J., of course the devil has a sideboard"

"Time for your medication!"

I haven't thought a lot about the end of my days, but speaking purely statistically it is likely to come in some kind of institutional care, whether a hospice, a care home or sheltered accommodation. And where old folk are gathered, there is encouragement for them to come together and share memories. Thinking of my parents' generation, that meant swapping punchlines from ITMA, and singing along to Vera Lynn or Rodgers and Hammerstein.

I am of a generation that doesn't "get" ITMA but can recite the dead parrot sketch, and knows that the ultimate answer to the ultimate question is 42. All together in the Day Room, I suppose we'll be cracking jokes about, "Not the comfy chair!" while our care assistants exchange looks of indulgent incomprehension. What are they going to think of us, though, when we all start to sing along to Bohemian Rhapsody?

I hope I am there when the circle of wrinklies launches into a tuneless but enthusiastic rendition of, "God save the Queen. The fascist regime", banging their heads against their Zimmer frames and gobbing into their cupasoups.