It has all happened so quickly. Not long ago I climbed a mountain, and now I hesitate to walk half a mile to the shops.
A cataclysmic change occurred when I turned 90. Overnight the world branded me an “old lady”. Two years later, I find myself alarmingly apt to play that role—doddery, vague, unadventurous and scared.
During the recent festive season, I avoided big, noisy parties that required standing up for a long time. My vigorous, fun-loving daughters have numerous in-laws, and it was those in-laws’ turn to provide the revelry they would attend this year. Then arose the tiresome question: “What are we going to do about Mum”? It was solved very happily by my choosing to spend Christmas with three gentle male friends, talking and eating and lying about on sofas. As befits my great age.
It proved to be an inspirational choice—though it did not start well. On Christmas Eve I paid a visit to a friend recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and another whose life has been rent asunder by the complications of a disastrous fall. Par for the course at my age. At Christmas lunch the next day, there was much talk about the horrors of ageing—mainly from me. Plus my usual, monotonous wailing about the state of the world. I suspect my friends were pretty bored with me when they suggested that perhaps I allow myself to get unhealthily depressed. It is true that I often sit weeping with despair in front of the television news.
One of them, a superb creative who writes vividly about injustices and tragedies, explained that he managed to be very happy, despite delving into darkness. He pointed out that feeling guilty about being happy helped no one. So, he explained, he protects himself by wrapping around him a comfort blanket of gratitude.
“Count your blessings” was a phrase used often by my parents, although, God knows, they seemed to have few. Anyway, I opted to have a go myself. I started by listing the huge variety of extraordinary friends with whom I am blessed.
I can have philosophical discussions with my erudite book club members and wise dustbin men. I can pursue a spiritual quest holding the hands of my Quaker friends. Helpless laughter will be shared with my brilliant standup friends in the Leicester Square Theatre. My grandchildren can continue to patiently educate me about technology. My prison work helps me understand the meaning of courage, and the numerous people involved in rebuilding shattered lives. With my contemporaries I can reminisce about past joys and sorrows—not to mention our colourful sex lives. But I do miss the companionship of work colleagues. Parts for old biddies are thin on the ground. I was recently delighted to be summoned to test for an old lady role. Actors are used to being told they are too tall, too short, too fat or too thin for a part, but I was flummoxed to be told, on the precipice of turning 92, that I looked too young.
After a sumptuous meal served at a table beautified by antique tableware, we discussed the joy of good food. I have lately neglected the pleasure of eating, which started in my wartime childhood. During the stark blandness of rationing, a major event in my young life was the occasional delivery of Crunchy bars at a local sweet shop. A queue would form, and if I was lucky I would end up sitting on a nearby garden wall, making the prize last for at least 10 minutes. The eating of a Crunchy bar was the zenith of sensuality. Biting off the chocolatey end, probing the interior honeycomb with my tongue and licking the melted chocolate surround—it was voluptuously wonderful. The Crunchy bar is my madeleine. In all the posh restaurants I have visited since then, I have never quite recaptured that thrill. But there is still time.
There is a misconception about age. Old bodies do become weaker and slower with age, but this is especially the case if you stop using them. Everyone starts trying to restrict old people’s activity, when we should be encouraged to jump about as much as possible. “Don’t overdo it. Have a little nap,” they say. “Let me help you.” “Should you be driving at your age?” “Can you manage the stairs?” “Should you live alone? Careful you don’t fall.” In fact, to sum up: “Shouldn’t you just be preparing for the end with dignity?”
Well, inspired by my friends, I am instead going to prepare for the future with relish. With lots of good wine, chat, hopefully work, piano lessons, concerts and ballet (all those lovely bums in tights). With books, food and learning, through my thrilling new discovery of podcasts. The possibilities of pleasure are manifold.
Appreciating these personal joys will give me strength to face the world’s horrors. I have planted some bulbs on my patio in anticipation of the arrival of spring. I will greet the next one with such joy, and relish it with all my aged body and soul.
