WE'VE learned a new word in our house. It's French, a word we'd never come across before, though we both know a fair bit of French. It turned up in a letter from our old friend Daniel.

He came over to England as a young student to work as an assistant in a local school. Not having anywhere else to live, he lodged with us, crammed in our little semi with two adults and two lively toddlers. I can't remember the year exactly - except that I know it was when Sunderland won the Cup, because my husband took our guest to watch the team's triumphant return from Wembley. Daniel was a passionate supporter of his own home football team, an even more passionate fan of rock group, The Who, wrote strange poetry, and had incurably itchy feet.

We've met a few times since then. When he dropped in once, after a long gap, our teenage daughter was amazed that her respectable parents had a friend who was so clearly a bit wild, dangerous even - edgy, as I suppose they'd call it now. He's travelled the world, lived rough in exotic places, keeping in touch year by year through letters and emails. And now, he tells us in this latest letter, he's joined the ranks of the 'tamalous'.

It's just as well he explained what it meant, because it wasn't in any French dictionary we could lay our hands on. It'll not be long though, I guess, before every English schoolchild learning French will come across it.

So what does it mean? Simple: Les Tamalous are the people who greet one another with "T'as mal où?" For those of you whose French is a bit rusty - or non-existent - that means: "Where does it hurt?" or, more loosely: "What's wrong with you?"

Oh dear, what a sad truth those words contain! Anyone over 60 will know that when two or three of our contemporaries are gathered together they end up talking about their ailments. It's not that you mean to - it's depressing after all, and very boring. But so much of life seems to be bound up with doctors/dentists/opticians/hospital appointments, if not for oneself, then for one's partner, parent, friend or neighbour. So even if the question is only: "How are you?" the answer tends to involve something that's gone wrong somewhere.

You wouldn't believe how many people have had hip replacements - unless you're about to have one yourself, in which case you know only too well, because everyone tells you, in detail. I can't think of an English word or phrase that so neatly sums up this stage of life as does Les Tamalous.

On the other hand, I'm not sure I want to find one. Because it is boring, and it doesn't really get you far. What's more, it suggests to those who haven't yet reached the age of the bus pass that all you have to look forward to is aches and pains and illness and incapacity. But it doesn't have to be like that. Admittedly, you can't do much about arthritic joints, decaying teeth and high blood pressure, except go on taking the tablets. But with a bit of effort you can see that there really are things that tip the scales in favour of reaching the Saga age group.

For a start, there's that free bus pass; and the senior rail card, the reduced admission charges to theatres and cinemas. But I think the best thing about maturity is what happens to your mind. Not the forgetfulness, but the way that you really don't care any longer what people think. All those cringeing anxieties that paralysed your youth, all those worries about what the neighbours were thinking - somehow they've all gone. You know the phrase: 'Life's too short to...'? That suddenly has real meaning. Life's too short to worry about trivial things. It's for living, to the full. So you do.

And if you're lucky enough to be a grandparent, then you wouldn't want to be young again for anything. But better not go there: if we tamalous can bore on about our ailments, just don't get us started on the grandchildren.