Cards on the table: I am 71 years of age. This is the only possible conclusion to draw from looking at my official documents, from birth certificate onward.

But do I feel 71? That’s an interesting question, which can only really be answered with another: what is 71 supposed to feel like?

Darned if I know. I remember, when much younger, looking at people who were then in their sixties and seventies and finding it hard to imagine what it must feel like for them being so old. And yet here I am, as old now as they were back then, and not feeling significantly different from how I did all those years ago (we’re talking about fifty).

Of course, I’m no Dorian Grey, so physically it’s a slightly different story now. Not that I’m decrepit, but there’s the odd arthritic twinge, a shortage of my own teeth and the fact that all my old clothes appear to have mysteriously shrunk. Overall, though, I could reasonably describe myself as reasonably hale (if not quite so hearty).

In my head though, I don’t feel significantly different to how I did in my twenties. Even if the flesh is a bit weaker, the spirit is still willing.

The reason for all these ruminative ramblings is that recently I was brought up sharply with the reality of my ‘official’ age. It came in the form of a letter from the local mairie, inviting me to the annual Repas des Aînés – the lunch that the commune puts on every year for les aînés. In the US, that probably translates best as ‘seniors’.

I knew that this was a thing, because (older) friends have been to it before, but it had simply never occurred to me that I’d ever qualify. Nonetheless, on the basis that it was the closest thing I’m ever likely to get to a free lunch, I accepted, although we had to pony up 25 Euros for Madame, what with her being still a mere slip of a girl.

Then I started to wonder quite seriously how many aînés were likely to show up for this festive occasion. The website of the mairie of Faire-Le Dodo (87) reveals that the human population of the commune was 829 at the last count. They don’t provide a breakdown by age, but from personal observation I’d have guessed that at least 300 invitations must have been sent out.

The lunch was to take place in the salle polyvalente – effectively, the village hall. We’ve been to other meals there before and a comfortable attendance would be about 120, tops. Would they have to hire a marquee?

Fortunately, the offered alternative of a hamper probably persuaded some invitees to stay away, and no doubt there were some people who could no longer get out, even if they’d wanted to, as well as more than a few misanthropes, who don’t very much like anybody, or anything, and wouldn’t accept on principle.

As it turned out, the attendance was right at the top of the comfortable range. So much so that they had to put an extra table in the area usually reserved for dancing.

Oh yes, dancing. On this and similar occasions, there’s normally a local band that plays a selection of tunes to get the folks up and shuffling between courses. For some reason they couldn’t make it this time, but some bright spark had a CD of traditional chansons which they played over the hall’s PA system. Naturally, it heavily featured an accordion. Hmmm.

In my experience, three of these chansons are absolutely de rigeur in the band’s set list. One, whose title I do not know, has a chorus which involves the diners having to wave their napkins above their head: don’t ask me why. The second, unaccountably, is the execrable ‘Y Viva España’, which was bad enough in its original form, but when it’s played on the accordion….

The third is a song called ‘La Ballade Des Gens Heureux’. Now, I had always assumed that the origins of this dated back to somewhere lost in the mists of time, but when I was researching this post (hard to believe, I know) I was surprised to discover that it was a massive hit in France as recently as 1975.

It is still very popular: I was watching a Rugby World Cup match on TV a couple of weeks ago and it popped up on there, sung by the (presumably) French section of the crowd, in between the usual renditions of the Marseillaise.

Be warned: it is irritatingly catchy…and cheesy (this, not the Marseillaise).

But it made me think. I probably looked a bit like the warbling M Lenorman back in 1975, so by implication a lot of the old geezers we were sharing this social occasion with very likely did too. I wonder how many of them looked around the room and thought ‘these people are so old‘.