When I turned 60, I couldn't believe it. "Impossible," I thought, "there must be some mistake."

But no, the arithmetic checked out, and my disbelief turned to dismay.

"Sixty isn't an age, it's an outrage", I feel like screaming at myself. "Six decades down the drain, and so little to show for it. Have you any idea how little time you've got left? Or some plan for making the most of it?"

Faced with questions as daunting as these, you'd think I'd have been panicked into pulling myself together. But now, four years later, I feel I've done nothing about acting my age or becoming more sage, but simply stumbled on blindly maintaining the rage.

But rage at what, exactly? Rage at all the precious time I've wasted, for a start. Year after dreary year of school lessons I've long forgotten or never learned in the first place, university lectures I should have had the wits to skip more of, and business meetings most of which I wish I'd had the wisdom not to turn up to.

Rage at all the time, energy and passion I squandered chasing success in the stupid, superficial world of advertising instead of having the sense to switch sooner to journalism.

Rage at all the countless hours, days, weeks, months and years frittered away in every futile pursuit you can think of, from chasing females I often regretted catching to earning the cash to buy trash I didn't need.

Rage too at not spending enough time relishing the all-too-rare right choices I made. Like raising two sons, reading too many books, planting lots of trees, cultivating some good friendships and even, for six marvellous years, going bush and becoming a farmer.

And rage right now, as I write these words, at the fact that I'm so much older than my wife and daughter, that my time with them and my sons, not to mention the grandchildren I've never yet met, must be fast running out.

I wasn't so vividly aware of my advanced age when I was living in Malaysia. But since I've been back here in Australia, the realisation has come home to me with a vengeance.

It started with the discovery that, as a returning resident of New South Wales I qualified for a Seniors Card. This piece of plastic entitles me to discounts and special deals on hundreds of goods and services including Sydney public transport. And into the bargain it bears the message that 'The holder is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance.'

Which, as pleasant as it sounds, is actually a positive way of putting the fact that, though the cardholder may be a decrepit, geriatric has-been and thus a potential burden on society, he or she, or me, in this case, is not yet considered a candidate for euthanasia. But at least it saves me a few bucks.

Change of status?

As it is quite an impressive-looking credential, complete with a lion-and-kangaroo coat of arms, it occurs to me that with just a little editing, it could give me some sorely-needed if spurious status. With just a touch or two of white liquid paper I could abbreviate the word 'Seniors' to 'Sen' and try passing myself off as a Senator.

Not around Sydney, of course, where any idiot can tell I'm nothing but an old nobody, but on my next trip back to Malaysia, where almost everyone who is anyone seems to be a Datuk, Dato', Datuk Seri, Dato' Seri, Tan Sri, Tun or whatever. Some innocents may well assume that we Australians are similarly obsessed with grandiose titles, and unquestioningly accept me as Senator Johns.

On second thoughts, though, I'm going to have lots of trouble raising the air fare back to Malaysia, let alone the cash to cut a senatorial dash when I get there, as in two months' time I turn 65 and qualify for the Australian Age Pension, which pays the less-than-princely sum of around 400 bucks a fortnight.

Then there's the problem that I can no longer strut like a Senator surely would, as recently I've suffered yet another cause for age rage. In increasing pain from what I assumed was an old football injury, and starting to limp around like some old person, I went to my doctor to have this presumably minor problem fixed. But after an X-ray, a bone scan and a visit to an orthopaedic surgeon, I find myself scheduled for a hip replacement.

This procedure may well be a miracle of modern medicine and a milestone in mankind's progress towards the ultimate survival technique - a total brain and body transplant - but to me it feels like just another millstone around my neck. Like my very age itself has become in my search for paid employment to supplement my pathetically inadequate pension.

Nobody, you'll be far from surprised to learn, is showing any eagerness whatever to hire a writer with 40-odd years' experience. Never mind that my typing fingers still function, that I still recall sufficient words to at least fake a sentence or two, and that in any case writers of all ages work sitting down. I guess it's just not hip, to coin a phrase, to have us fossils on the premises depressing the rest of the staff with our decaying looks and tired old lines.

At least I should be thankful for the fact that I'm still churning-out verbiage instead of pushing up daisies. Death has put a full stop to the careers of far greater and younger writers than me, including John Keats (26), the Bronte Sisters (29, 30 and 39), Lord Byron (36), Jane Austen (42), Oscar Wilde (46), William Shakespeare (56) and Charles Dickens (58).

But unlike these immortals, I've been fortunate to live long enough to read the great poem that Dylan Thomas wrote encouraging his failing 76-year-old father with the deathless refrain:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

But rage, rage against the dying of the light.

So however old I get, I'll always have a goal. To rage, rage, not so much against the dying of my own dim glimmer, but against the dying of the flickering lights of truth, justice and freedom.

And I'll have the example and inspiration of colleagues like Bernard 'Zorro Unmasked' Khoo who can still fight the good fight as hard as ever, despite having reached an even more outrageous age than I have.