When I'm 64
I try and imagine you as sixty four, all grey hair and beard, staring at me across the breakfast table, but all I can manage is the beard because you had one that time you went undercover in Dover. I told you then you frightened the ferries to moving faster, that you had another job lined up one day.
Such a long time ago, mate... Nothing's the same now. I miss it. I can't picture your face looking older and I never will be able to...
You're no older sunshine, not even at sixty three.
Now cut the bloody cake.