Suddenly, everybody's interested in old people, as if we're an alien life form. Perhaps because there are loads more of us, hanging on for longer. What do we do all the time? What do we think? Can we hear? Can we see? Speak? Eat? Do we have sex and normal bodily functions? Do we still use egg-slicers? Can we text? Do we have any muscle tone at all? Do we live in armchairs?

I promise you. It needn't be that bad, which is lucky, because soon it's going to last even longer. Spanish scientists have recently managed to extend the lives of modified mice, and keep them cancer-free. And if mice can do it, say the scientists, then so can we - for 125 years. Imagine that. If you marry in your 20s, you'll be together for a hundred years.

Which is perhaps why the over-60s divorce rate is zooming up. Who wants to hang about for another 60 years once the children have left home, with the same dreary old partner? Marriage was never meant to last that long. When it was first invented, death tended to part people fairly quickly. One barely had time to get browned off. Now we have more time to get fed up, and we won't put up with as much. We are a tougher, more hedonistic and ruthless lot. We are the new "me generation". Bugger the sick partners, the mouldering elderly parents and the grandchildren, we are off touring the world, having tons of sex and buying houses abroad. Cheer up, you people who are terrified of your looming pension age. Sixty is the new 18.

Anyway, that's what I've heard. I haven't come across much of it myself, being a frightfully prim agoraphobic. And most of my married friends seem to be happily sticking at it. But I'm just saying that the opportunity is there if you fancy it. So far, Clayden, aged 68, is my most adventurous chum. He's just been on an extreme camping holiday. He took his little lightweight tarpaulin and trudged to Eskdale, below Scafell, where he set up camp all alone in a wilderness miles from anywhere or anyone. No houses, no shops, no road, no mobile mast, not even a footpath, only sheep and bogs.

What a lunatic. Whatever did he do that for? Because he wanted to prove he could. He knew the area, he recognised the bog plants. He took some heavenly coffee, a little stove, eccles cakes, and some packets of wild rabbit and Herdwick mutton stew - just heat and eat. The rain poured down, a ghastly storm blew up, the tarpaulin flapped wildly all night and Clayden was drenched, but he survived and is thrilled with himself. He'd done it before, just him, a girlfriend and the elements, but he wanted to do it again, alone. And now he has. "It was an epiphany," says Clayden proudly.

But what if he'd fallen into a bog? What if he'd been poorly? Or his tent had blown away and he'd died of exposure? I begged him never to do it again. For me, that holiday would have been hell on earth, but for Clayden it was paradise. See what older persons can achieve, if they so wish? And if they don't want to, they can stay at home and rot, like me. It's optional. We're all different. Just like you. From the same planet.

· Rosemary and I have just read about a new book by American psychotherapist Gary Neuman, declaring that wives are to blame for their husbands' cheating. He advises that the wives offer sex on demand, unconditional admiration and forgiveness, fascination with male hobbies, and then, with a bit of luck, the husbands will remain faithful.

Back in the 1970s, Rosemary and her family visited an elderly female friend who fitted this bill; she believed that men were precious creatures who needed pampering. She ironed Rosemary's husband's Telegraph, sat him down with a dry sherry and little biscuits, and sent Rosemary upstairs to put the children to bed while she made the dinner. Rosemary's husband didn't have to move a muscle. She'd never seen him look so cheery.

Rosemary was not so cheery. Pandering wasn't fair then, and it isn't fair now. What's more, it doesn't work. In our experience, in the marriages that survive, the wife is usually a strong disciplinarian, giving the husband clearly defined tasks, so he knows where he is: "Put the milk bottles out now"; "We are going to the cinema on Wednesday"; "Goodnight, I have a headache," and such like.

"Sounds just like Mrs Fielding," says Fielding. He knows quite a few blokes with bossy wives. "I like a fair amount of bossy-boots, and a fair amount of absence," he says. "You've got to know where you stand."

If he's 60% against moving to Dorset and Mrs Fielding is 100% for moving, then it's motion carried. Off to Dorset. Occasionally, when it's football v Desperate Housewives, Fielding is allowed to win. But only because Mrs Fielding likes to gaze at Steven Gerrard's legs. "There is a difference between bossy and battleaxe," says Fielding strictly.

So that's what men want, Mr Neuman. Clear instructions, time off and leadership. Never mind what women want, of course. Unfortunately, neither Rosemary nor I have ever managed to make any chap do as he was told. "It's just bad luck, isn't it," says Rosemary poignantly. "Is there something wrong with us?" Don't ask me.

· This week Michele watched Maestro on BBC 2, and was horribly jealous: "What a fabulous opportunity. I wanted a go. I conducted in front of the telly. Easy. I bet I could do it better than them." She also watched Wife Swap, Banged Up Abroad and Special Victim's Unit: "Only because I still can't read properly. Why else would I do it?"