Today would have been your 39th birthday.
I’d have called you an old bugger, or somesuch. You’d have replied “But not as old a bugger as you are!”
“Ahh,” I’d have retorted, “but that means I’ve got wisdom on my side.”
“No, it doesn’t, it just means you’re old. And I’ll always be younger than you.”
“Not if I go into space in a rocket and travel at close to the speed of light.”
“Do you have a rocket that can travel at close to the speed of light?” you’d have asked, mock seriously.
“No,” I would have had to admit.
“Then I’ll always be younger than you.”
And now, even if I miraculously did have a rocket that could travel close to the speed of light, you’ll always be younger than me.
Trev never could stand to lose an argument.