I get these strange self-improvement type ideas in my head all the time. They emerge. Then die as soon as my attentions are drawn to something more scintillating (i.e., just about anything else). However, when I'm 113 there's a solid chance that the mood to improve my non-existent baking skills will still have not struck this poor undomesticated soul.
Rusted baking tins, then, are safe in my house . . .