Everyone around me seems to be dropping like flies into retirement, says Atticus, and it's making me very uncomfortable. Retirement. The hanging up of one's gloves, sword or fiddle. The ceasing of valuable occupation. The anecdotes beginning "During my time at..." The withdrawal into the garden shed. The doddery dash for hobbies and a sudden interest in bridge. It all sounds so uncompromisingly final.

Like an old hoover that's lost its suck, you're done and that's that. No wonder many people get depressed when they retire. I'm determined to avoid the label. Like a classic car, maintained to perfection, I shall never retire.

In fact, I shall stubbornly resist the sheer concept. I shall continue to work hard in the act of living fully until my time comes. And that means that I shall not – while I am working to earn a crust – put off the act of living. That is perhaps the crux of the problem. In being defined by what we do rather than who we are, "working" and "living" are split apart. Living is subordinated to working. Living is for later, once the serious work of work is out the way.

That horrible Protestant work ethic that has meant that "What do you do?" is the ice breaker of choice at many a dinner party. Living – when retired, of course – is merely a bonus prize, once you turn your mind off. But, no, I'm going to refuse the concept of retirement, of spliting up work and life, and am determined to enjoy the journey to the very end. I shall take a leaf out of my great aunt's book – sharp as a whistle and still writing and publishing books at 93.