Sunday 11th December

Only a couple of generations ago, of course, and no-one would have disputed that I was old indeed.  I am sixty-five after all, and it is only recently that someone of that age, and especially a woman, would have been considered to be, if not in their dotage, then definitely old.  One of the unwritten rules of our present polite society is that just as one refrains from calling someone fat, the word ‘old’ is reserved for the truly decrepit and those visibly in poor health.  Sixty is the new fifty, and even seventy is now considered quite young. And we are inveigled with stories of sprightly seventy year olds walking to the North Pole, or opening a new business, or perhaps just something as mundane as a parachute or a bungee jump.  And no, you may have no fears for me in that direction; I have never sought to make a fool of myself and hope that I don’t let my standards slip as I glide into old age.  I am quite fit really I suppose, though I have never been into a Gym since school, when once a week the small Hall was converted into an amateur Gynasium, with ropes and wall bars, and a battered old horse and springboard wheeled out, along with a few rubber floor mats.  I was always a reluctant participant, simply going through the motions as I did too when we were marched to the playing fields of a neighbouring boys school for Hockey.  I walk, it is as simple as that, I try to walk almost everywhere; not having a car can really be a boon sometimes.

But what is it about the human body that it is unforgiving and so quick to remind you that you are actually getting old; the aching bones as you haul yourself out of the sofa, when once you jumped up without even a hand on the arm to help you.  And the winter colds which previously you just shrugged off, now hang around for weeks, despite all the comforts and remedies you apply; that hacking cough is so persistent and the nose that had stopped dripping is now running like a leaky tap.  I almost wish I had actually had the wretched flu-jab after all.

But this feeling of ‘oldness’ is not so much that one’s aches and pains are noticeably increasing, it is more one of attitude.  How many times have I caught myself about to say “Young people of today” just like Grandma used to be so fond of declaring, usually with a warning glance in my direction I might add. Why do I feel so excluded from the mainstream, alienated almost by the younger people I seem to see all around me.  I look in the mirror, and surely I don’t actually look that old, or do I? Or is that these features, so familiar to me, look so different to the under-thirties, with their nonchalant air of eternal youth; their turn will come, so I don’t blame them for just getting on with it and having a good time.

Sometimes I think I am just wallowing in my memories, and that maybe I should just bite the bullet and look around me for a partner before I get really old.  I have considered it but I suppose it is because I feel that I may have more to lose than I would gain.  If only it could be contained to just a weekly meal out in a good restaurant, the occasional concert and afternoon walks around a gallery.  That would suit me fine, it’s the moving in with someone that I dread, the putting up with their moods, their mess, their neediness that I dread, and so I remain single, and decline those half-ventured invites I still get occasionally at friends parties, and prefer to grow old gracefully, or for all anyone cares, quite disgracefully.