I suppose it could be seen as my second childhood.
Back around early 1956 I learned to walk ... and here in the opening act of 2021 (the newly released and unpredictably scripted sitcom of life) I have begun to walk again.
I have taught myself how to lace up my old sneakers properly and I set forth every evening for a 30-minute wander.
Upon a course I cannot get lost upon - it is called the neighbourhood.
Going back to the first stages of my early walking and stumbling days I one evening took a wander down the road, across a grassy strip and was found by a startled neighbour sitting on the nearby railway lines.
A sterling effort for a 16-month old.
The path I now take is very familiar as it has been here as long as we have been here ... that sort of makes sense, doesn't it?
So no excuses for arriving home seven minutes past the usual allotted time that it takes to walk the three or so kilometres.
"I had to stop on the way back to get a couple of things," is my response to any suggestion I had veered off course.
"Oh, they come in cans then?" my timekeeper will remark.
To which I point out that picking up a couple of cans of much-needed liquid refreshment is preferable to purchasing the bottled sort ... as one ends up carrying the additional weight of thick glass and tin tops.
"One must be practical," I huff.
Yep, I am back walking on the evening chain gang.
I used to take an evening walk regularly about a decade ago, and that lasted for a year or more until I just started forgetting how to lace up the old sneakers.
But I achieved my aim of losing a fair slice of weight and keeping the knees operating with zeal.
In those intervening years I "retired" to sitting outside on a fine evening and reading, and wondering.
But now I am back wandering.
And while I do my wandering my mind does begin to wonder, about all sorts of things because there are no televisual distractions.
I wander ... I wonder. If only I could windah ... win da Lotto.
That scatterbrained line emerged during last night's wander because that's what happens when you take a walk. Or a wander ... or whatever.
You pace and you ponder, for like any solo voyage you don't have mental plans prepared.
Your mind will deliver wandering thoughts as it pleases.
"I wonder what I shall wonder about this evening," I ask myself before I set foot, then the other foot, then the other foot etc etc etc.
When I see peoples' cats relaxing or having their own wander I wonder what their names are.
I have given my own names to a couple. One is Groper, for he, or she, is unnervingly affectionate.
In terms of enduring the occasional, and noisy, speedsters who pollute the busy stretch on my wanders I talk a lot, for I tell them off.
There are some imbecilic members of the young motoring fraternity out there, and I see at least one every evening.
Oh yeah, and I occasionally talk to trees and plants, and just occasionally (if the right knee requests it) I sit on someone's fence and wonder when I will get up again.
I can imagine the residents' responses as they watch through the window. "He's there again ... call the Dog Squad," one will remark.
That's the Dawdling Old Geezer Squad.
"I just gave the fence a brush down yesterday ... I hope he's wearing his clean trousers," the residential accomplice will add.
Yes, I was likely sitting there and wondering if indeed I had donned fresh trousers for that evening's wander.
I wonder what I'll wear for my next wander?
New shorts and sneakers if I windah Lotto.
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist and observer of the slightly off-centre.