When I was in my early 50's and first diagnosed with Type 2, my quack told me that I would be lucky to see my 60th birthday. Seriously! In so many words - never forgotten it.
On my 60th, I stood outside the surgery and blew them a huge raspberry. (Plan A was to bare my backside at them, but Mrs O would not allow it ...
)
I have never gone back to see that doctor again - it's a group practice and I've managed to successfully avoid her. So not only don't I want to know my life expectancy from the Government, I don't want a "named doctor" for my old age either, which is another of their stupid plans.
The problem with telling folk they'll die at the 79.8 year mark or whatever is that they'll blue all their savings on a 79th birthday party then embark on a world cruise. When they get back to Southampton, what happens next? Controlled euthanasia? This country get's more crackers every day.