When I am old and grey, I shall not wear purple, because it will most likely still look like crap on me. In this age of eccentricity, I will wear wine red and olive green ooh and lots of deep orange. I will own cats, some goats and one surly turtle. I will live in Santorini, unless this precious island has succumbed to earthquakes, in which case I'll probably have become a mermaid in order to live in its underwater remains. I will probably be partnerless, but never friendless. During the long periods of time that pass when old lovers aren't visiting, I will either charm or pay for reasonably young people to come and give me nights of pleasure, the proof of which will be heard across the island in my screams and warm sighs. I will start each morning by chatting and having tea with the fairies living on my balcony. I will have young people over to dinner where I will regale them with tales of my sexual escapades (just to traumatize them) and with many old italian and french songs played on my grandfather's accordion. I will put on my old belly dance costumes and dance around the house, and perhaps the yard, in them. I will be in the Guiness Book of World Records for largest slash and het fanfic pornography collection (I'll keep the plaque on my mantelpeice). I will pick my nose whenever the urge strikes and use a beautiful silk kerchief to wipe my fingers on. I will grow and consume more raspberries than humanly possible. I will own an extra house just to store my old books, this house will be rented by the great authors of the day in order to create their great works. Sure, the goats will eat essential pages of their work that they'll have to re-type, but that'll just be part of the charm.

Last but not least, when and if I get to be old and grey, I will be old and grey, not remodeled and remoulded. Except maybe my breasts, I'll probably be vain enough to have gotten them lifted sometime in my 60s during an emotional crisis, or just trying to get myself laid.