I stand condemned by my own memory. I have just spent 15 minutes searching through all my applications for the blogging software I use—I could not remember what it was called. So I have obviously been away from blogging too long. For reference, it was called Qumana, and there was a very good reason I couldn’t find it—I decided, many moons ago, to uninstall it in favour of ScribeFire.
But why the mention of teeth? Well, I have now lived half of my allotted threescore years and ten. My legs are grey. My ears are gnarled. My eyes are old and bent. So you will empathise with my utter embogglement when I say that I was asked for proof of age just yesterday when I tried to buy some wine. I have not been asked for proof of age for seventeen years.
I went back with my driving licence, though I bitterly resented having to show it. This feels like the thin end of the identity card wedge. I thought that there were proof of age cards available that didn’t serve as identity cards, but a cursory search online revealed none. After all, why would we have such a thing? The alleged clamp-down on under-age drinking serves no real purpose in the public interest. Children who are determined to drink will continue to obtain alcohol, just as easily as they obtain illegal drugs. The identity card that is supposed to prove your age will also prove your name, your exact date of birth, and probably your address.
In case you remain unconvinced of the lunacy of this situation, consider the following actual proofs of age: my wedding band that has formed a groove in my burgeoning ring finger over five years of marriage; my wife by my side; my company ID card; my two credit cards; my thinning hair; my greying stubble; and my three wisdom teeth. Apart from the teeth, all of these were available for inspection, but the shop assistant would not accept any of these as proof of age. She had already been brainwashed into an unthinking automaton in this increasingly Orwellian society.