Age does seem to bring with it a certain recollection of "they words" – probably from years of looking for that just-parted-off 10BA stud on the workshop floor, or discovering the 17/64-inch Acme spanner (left-handed) is the one missing from the set when needed most.
My sister tells of her son's visits to a couple of nursing-homes in the course of his work.
In one, a cat wandered across the lounge, and the manager said, "He's a sort of pet. All the residents love him!" Whereupon one dear, sweet lady of obviously respectable vintage finger-beckoned my nephew over to confide in him, "I don't! I hate f+++++g cats!"
In the other he was suddenly aware that two ladies of similar Summer Wine and above vintage were assessing him, in his early-twenties, with comments like, "He's a bit of all right, isn't he? I know what I could do with him!"
'
I was once asked to confirm my age – in my late-50s – in a Spar shop. Puzzled, as there seemed nothing amiss in the items between us, I asked why. It seems a spray-can of deodorant was the problem. I mentioned it to one of the till-girl's colleagues next time I was in there, and this lady explained she shouldn't have asked, but had probably misunderstood the rules.
"Oh, thank-you, but you didn't need to apologise!" I replied, "I wasn't offended. Rather flattered actually!"