I read with avid interest that Sir Tim Rice would be judging a charity songwriting contest, hoping to find a hotbed of song writing talent (The Argus, July 1).

At last, someone who would appreciate my talent - a Knight of the Realm, a really a famous lyricist. A wonderful opportunity lay before me - this was the chance I had been waiting for.

I jumped out of bed (I won't mention my age) on Sunday morning, full of the joys of spring because, you see, I already had 150 songs written and composed by myself.

Well, I'm getting on a bit and can't join a football team any more. I couldn't even win a wheelchair race but songwriting is my Godgiven talent.

I didn't have to be good-looking or agile - let's face it, Irving Berlin was no spring chicken when he wrote White Christmas and that didn't do badly, did it?

I felt confident in my work, it being Sir Tim and such a noble cause, so I set to immediately to find ten of my best songs.

It took me about an hour to set these songs up in a playlist on my PC. I selected a white-faced CD so I could print a nice graphic on it, put the CD in my CD-writer and was just about to press record when a horrible word hit me - no, I thought, not with such salubrious promoters.

But, sadly, the horrible word had raised its gruesome head again.

Yes, you've guessed, it was a hot bed of ageism.

I still can't believe, on reading the entry rules on their web site, I needed to be less than 30 years old to compete.

Tuberculosis has no age barrier.

-Derek Hobbs-Ainley, Hove