There are some big old oak trees in Binsted Woods. One I particularly like must be hundreds of years old. Today I stopped for a chat with it.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” it answered, somewhat to my surprise I have to say, “not having a mirror to look in.”
“Well,” I said, “I can assure you, you do.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Can I ask how old you are?”
“If you want to,” it answered.
“How old are you then?”
“Dunno.” it said. “Got no idea. Been here for bleedin’ ages, I know that much. Bleedin ages!”
“You must have seen a lot of interesting things in your long life?” I said, “lots of historical things.”
“I ain’t seen nothing,” it answered, “ain’t seen bugger all.”
“Well,” I said, “that does surprise me. You have lived for probably hundreds of years and you haven’t seen anything?”
The giant oak tree gave its branches a good shake and said, “Look mate, I am stuck here in the middle of these bleedin’ woods surrounded by loads of bleedin’ trees, I ain’t seen, a bleedin’ thing!
With that I bid the oak tree farewell and left it to it’s quiet and uninteresting existence. Age it seems means nothing if you are constantly rooted to the spot. Us humans should perhaps bear that in mind whenever we feel about complaining of our lot in life.