TODAY'S sixtysomethings, I learn, are fitter than yesterday's sixtysomethings.

This is astounding news which - tap wood - one accepts as fact. Of course, it depends on which of yesterday's sixtysomethings you're talking about. It was not so long ago, for instance, that simply by reaching 60 you qualified for a herogram from one of the more useless royals, of whom, admittedly, there are more than a few. In those far off days a mere cough was a harbinger of doom. Now, however, when 60 is the new 50 or 40, and when on average we can expect live to near 80, there is an imperative to do things which in normal circumstances might been deemed daft.

Anent which, the Home Secretary and I recently welcomed two Welsh friends to our abode. Both are sixtysomething and retired. The male of the duo decided it was time to fulfil his ambition of pedalling from Land's End to John O'Groats, which he determined to do in 10 days. His wife persuaded him that she should accompany him, albeit by car. At first, he objected, worried that she might have too much time on her hands, given that she could swallow miles far faster than him. Eventually, he relented when she agreed that her main task each day would be to find him lunch, which he specified must be a chicken pasta salad. Amazingly, she managed to meet this challenge and my old amigo reached John O'Groats on schedule, raising a considerable sum for Alzheimer's research in the process. You may file this tale under "heartwarming".

PETER Oborne, a political pundit on the Dodograph, has resigned, accusing the rag's panjandrums of bowing to pressure from HSBC, the dodgy bank, to bury the story about its even dodgier tax dealings. In so doing Mr Oborne takes a swipe at Murdo[ch] MacLennan, its chief exec, and says he has "no confidence" in Pinky and Perky, aka the Barclay Twins, its owners. I have met Mr Mac just once when he passed through the Hootsmon office where I was being held hostage. He promised to negotiate for my release then disappeared, never to be seen again. I always thought he looked like he'd have made a good addition to the cast of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Pinky and Perky were the then owners of the Hootsmon, which they visited but rarely in their Lear jets. So little did they have to say for themselves when they did appear that I often wondered if they'd mislaid their tongues. And when they did speak it was to themselves. Is this common among twins?

WHAT, I am asked, was the last erotic movie I saw, the peg being Fifty Shades Of Grey? I scratch my brains. Was it The Way We Were or The Sound Of Music? Simple people, I'm told, are flocking to see Fifty Shades, many of them women flushing hotly. Whereas they read the book surreptitiously in Kindle-form they appear not to be too bothered who sees them entering cinemas. In Glasgow this included the Grosvenor, which in days of yore used to show only fillums with subtitles. Now it has gone down the lowest common denominator route and is paying for it. Last weekend, three females were arrested for alleged disorder offences and alleged assault "Their dreams have come true!" yelled one witness. "Only in Glasgow are police called to the cinema," commented another. Yet another remarked: "Besides being the worst film I've ever seen, three women were getting arrested and put in a police van when we arrived." A spokesperson for the Grosvenor, schooled in the use of weasel words, dismissed the rammy as "an isolated incident".

TO Dumbarton Library to talk about my dear chum Alastair Reid, poet, translator, essayist, Hearts supporter. I am reminded by my host, Ian Baillie, that not the least of Mr Reid's achievements was the creation of what is believed to be the world's longest palindrome. Here it is: T Eliot, top bard, notes putrid tang emanating, is sad. I'd assign it a name: "Gnat dirt upset on drab pot toilet". To anyone who can beat it I am prepared to offer a well-deserved pat on the back.

WHAT'S to become of the LibDumbs? Facing a wipeout in May, they are beginning to squabble among themselves. Dr Vince Cable, on a flying visit to the Frozen North, says that, in the event of a hung parliament, he would be happy to work with the Gnats in a "rainbow coalition". A day later up pops Willie Rennie, leader of the LibDumbs at Holymoses, suffering as usual from a bad bout of indigestion. He says he agrees with Dr Cable but can't quite bring himself to admit he would work with Auld Nicola and her chums. "To say we would form a coalition with the SNP is not right." Is it any wonder, then, that voters have trouble figuring out what the LibDumbs would do? So why did Dr C say what he did? Says Mr Indigestion: "He was answering, in Vince's way, a hypothetical question on a hypothetical issue." All clear?

WOLF Hall trundles on, more in darkness than in light. The BBC, I am reliably informed, instructed the director to ration the use of candles in the forlorn hope of reducing its utility bills. In one murky scene several candles were snuffed out simultaneously, leaving the screen totally black. Not that it matters for nothing much is happening. Aren't the Tudors awful bores? All they were ever bothered about, it seems, was begetting heirs. I prefer the Stuarts and humbly request BBC Teuchter to get on the case. David Tennant would make a good Bonnie Prince Charlie, leaping across the moors in his trews. And who better than Tilda Swinton to play Flora Macdonald, after whom a famous make of margarine was named?