Just look at that guy in the byline picture. No youngster.
Not going to be signed by Arsenal at this stage.
Or get an invite from Gillette to be the face of their next ad campaign.
I know my place in the world. Have modest expectations of it. Know it revolves very happily without my regular input.
Still, I'm not done. Not completely. There is no need to put me out with the waste bin of a Monday morning.
Or run me off to that nice nursing home with the sea view. Just yet.
With that in mind, I applied for a job a few weeks back. A month ago to be precise. On a whim.
Not because I really need work, though the money would be nice. Or because I'm bored or at a loose end.
But because it is always nice to think there is one more challenge out there. That I still have what it takes to contribute. Give something so as to get something back.
I'm 64 which is oldish, I admit. But not old. Or near it. As I graduate with a decent degree from Trinity in the next few weeks it seems reasonable enough to have a few notions yet.
I had the urge - self-indulgent, I know - to send out at least one CV where I could advertise my freshly minted educational status.
Not having a third-level qualification never really hampered my career but I can see how having had one might have made it that bit easier.
But this degree in history is more than proof that I am compos mentis. It's directly relatable to the job advertised.
I won't go into too many details, or embarrass the employer in question, but the job advertised was for a commissioning editor in publishing.
I ticked off the basic requirements and saw nothing that seemed particularly alien.
Basically, the job entails project managing non-fiction books through their various stages of development. It is about commissioning, coaching writers, editing, rewriting and deadlines.
Newspapers are different, of course, with a variation of those required skills.
Still, I thought I was in with a whisper if not a shout. This was my territory.
I emailed in my application as requested. A covering letter and a short CV.
Signed off by saying that I was looking forward to hearing from them.
I had no illusions. No great expectations.
I understood that while my age wasn't an insurmountable obstacle it was one that most of the other applicants would not have to worry about.
I appreciated that it was likely there were better candidates than me pinging off their emails. With dazzling CVs full of brio and swagger.
Understood too that the job may have been filled already, as sometimes happens.
Or that it was just a fishing expedition to see what talent was out there.
I didn't have high hopes but I did have my pride. We all do. So I waited. A week. Two. Three. Four.
But the only reply was a silent one. The silence of an email that didn't drop.
Not only was I not worthy of an interview, I didn't even rate highly enough to be offered an acknowledgment. Not even a 'bugger off grandad, we're busy.'
Besides the rudeness and the discourtesy, the thing that struck me most was the lack of professionalism.
A shoddy, disrespectful way of doing business. Who knows why. Maybe it was something I said, or neglected to say.
But I'd put my money on ageism. That's a resilient virus that seems to have no cure.
Shoot me now.