9. Spitting, Snogging and the Generation Gap.

Now, here's a question for you.  Why do the young have to spit so much? And I'm going to single out young men here as, during my extensive studies of the subject, I have rarely, if ever, seen a young woman doing it.  I hate it and I'm absolutely certain that it's not some sort of physical necessity. Speaking for myself, I've never had a problem dealing with my own saliva. If it accumulates I swallow it as that seems to be the natural and hygenic response.  I have never been tempted to deposit it on the shoe of  the nearest passing stranger. It's disgusting, both to witness the act and to encounter the results on the pavement, so why do they do it? Is it some weird demonstration of manhood? If so it doesn't impress me, I just assume I'm looking at a neanderthal yob who hasn't achieved any of the niceties of civilised behaviour. I blame footballers. They don't seem able to put one overpaid foot in front of the other without gobbing all over the pitch. I've even seen that nice David Beckham doing it and it's setting a bad example to those who hero worship men who can run about a bit and kick a ball, though I've never fathomed why that is either. I think there should be a card that the ref can wave in the face of excess expectoration of mucus. Three spits and you're off. It'd improve things no end.

This is just one of the things that annoy me about young folk and, no doubt, mark me down as a grumpy old woman and send me into '...now, in my day...' mode, which I know to be annoying in itself, having sighed with bored irritation when my supposedly elders and betters said it to me, all those years ago. But I can't help myself. I have a longish list of such vexations, not least of which is the apparent need of the young, of both sexes, to eat all the time. Why is that, for goodness sake? We in the West are, by and large, overfed anyway so I'm sure there's no real need for this constant grazing on crap in between mealtimes. The cinema is one of the worst places to witness this modern phenomenon. There they all are, with a cardboard bucket, big enough to bath a baby in, filled to overflowing with tasteless, polystyrene textured popcorn and an equally gigantic container full of sugared water. Why couldn't they eat before they came? They will then crunch and slurp their way through this expensive feast of pointless, nourishment-free shit whilst the rest of us are trying to concentrate on the film. AND they talk! You're not supposed to talk in the cinema.  We pay considerable amounts of money for cinema tickets, and we're paying to listen to the film, not Kirsty telling Sharon what Connor said to her last night and how Chris took exception to it and it all kicked off and Darren joined in and you know what he's like when he's had a bevvy?  No! I don't! And I don't want to know. I want to watch the fucking film!! Is that too much to ask?  I sit there, praying they'll choke on the popcorn and then fall face down into the Coke, to finish the job off.  Harsh but fair I think.

But now, in the name of balance, I'm compelled to look back, to my youthful cinema-going days, when the only sustenance on offer was a silent choc-ice.  Whilst quietly licking we were also permitted to smoke, which most of us did then, so the film was usually viewed through an atmospheric fog of ciggie smoke. On one memorable occasion, having applied a match to my Players No. 6 untipped (we were fearless in those days) I managed to set fire to a long, varnished fingernail at the same time. As my Persian Pink flared before my horrified eyes I hurled both match and fag into the air, the better to blow out the blaze at the end of my finger.  The match went out, the cigarette landed in the aisle and glowed ominously. Too ashamed to leap to my feet and reclaim it I remained in my seat, weighing up the probability of its going out against the odds of it igniting a terrible inferno in which hundreds would perish.  I opted for staying put and hoping for the best and, after a few very long minutes, the glow died. I breathed again and felt free to return my attention to the chirpy goings on in 'South Pacific' and a woman trying to wash a man right out of her hair. I lit another fag and relaxed. I know, of course, that a ciggie is probably more harmful to the human anatomy than a load of popcorn, though with obesity on the rise it's a close run thing. But I'll concede that it damages my argument, and the (very few) non-smokers in the audience probably hated us as much as I hate the snackers and slurpers so I'd settle for calling that one a draw, except I'm not giving way on the talking problem.  We knew not to indulge in pointless verbal exchanges during the film.  However, we did snog. Indeed, there were double seats on the back two rows of all cinemas for that very purpose, and they call this the permissive age! It's possible that the noises of adolescent passion were just as disturbing as vacuous chatter, if not more so, which leaves me feeling I might not have a leg to stand on with this one. In fact, I'm beginning to feel slightly ashamed of having raised it in the first place.  But I'm remaining firm on the spitting issue.

And then there is litter. I was brought up never to drop rubbish in the street, and so firmly did I drill this maxim into my own children that they all say they could still no more drop a sweet wrapper than fly to the moon. When they were small and we were out and about they dreaded seeing others committing this heinous crime as they knew their mother would scoop up the plastic bottle, sandwich wrapper or whatever, catch up with the litterer  and shove their rubbish in their chest whilst pointing out the nearest bin. Now, I might just have been lucky, but I never came to any harm during these crusades, probably because the louts were too surprised to react very quickly, but it embarrassed the hell out of my kids. It may well have scarred them for life. But they don't drop litter and that's the important thing! It's definitely a worsening problem and it's hard to walk anywhere without having to wade through the detritus of cans and bottles and cardboard food cartons. It disgusts me, but I am grown old and cowardly and no longer pursue the perpetrators with my youthful zeal. Instead, I content myself with glowering at them, in what I hope to be an intimidating manner, but I have been told, by one who has witnessed my glower, that I just look like a mildly irritated gerbil. I'm not sure what prompted the gerbil analogy, but I was not best pleased with it. And, obviously, if that's how I'm coming across  then it's hardly likely to strike fear into half a dozen six foot tall youths who are full of lager and testosterone.

There again, I have been known to make misjudgements.  I know! SO not like me. But I have been guilty of assuming a gaggle of young people, meandering along a pavement and, perhaps, giving me a gentle-ish buffeting in passing are doing so with malice aforethought. Yet, when I have turned to give them the full gerbil treatment I've been met by an anxious little face looking into mine and a steadying hand, accompanied by an, 'I'm so sorry,' completely taking the wind out of my sales and reminding me not to be so quick to condemn without real cause. The truth of the matter is that, although I might find fault, I genuinely like young people and find much to admire in many of them. As my children headed into the supposedly difficult teen years I got the usual sympathetic comments and pitying looks from friends, and dire warnings about how they would turn from sweet natured, pliable little things into the spawn of Beelzebub, but I was delighted to find that I actually liked them very much as they made the transition from child to adult, and I liked their friends, too. I might sometimes have got a bit cross about the amount of noise they could generate but there again, after they'd all grown and flown, I'd have given anything to be woken at four in the morning by the sound of half a dozen pairs of Doc Martin's clattering up the stairs as daughters, plus mates, arrived home from a night out. Oh, and I just want to point out that the DMs were worn with the hooped tights, floppy skirts and beads of the gentle grungers. They were not of the skinhead leaning. Anyway, it seemed to me that theirs was a much more compassionate, engaged generation compared to mine. They were aware of the wider world in a way I never was, and they cared. They struck me as a lot less selfish than us sixties kids, as they stood in the rain in the city centre with their petitions against various injustices. I liked the way they supported each other, through any difficult patches, with a love and loyalty that was touching. I saw that they were just thoroughly nice, reasonable people, and not at all the demons I had been led to expect.  They were also warm and funny and great company and I've no real reason to believe that the current batch should be any different. Oh, of course the media, in all it's forms, will focus on the bad ones, and I suppose that's what I've been doing here too,  but I'm sure there are an awful lot more of them out there who are good, responsible, decent young people and I should probably allow them a bit of slack on the popcorn front, etc.

So where does that leave us? I appear to have started out in high dudgeon and then gone on to demolish most of my own argument. But not all of it. There are still some things I wouldn't have dreamed of doing, and still wouldn't. For example, young mothers in the supermarket who placate their demanding little monsters by giving them things to eat, before they've been paid for.  They're not dishonest, they'll supply the crumpled, empty wrapper at the till for scanning, but what sort of an example are they're setting their kids? Is it ok to encourage instant gratification? Might it not be prudent to teach them you can't have something until it's been paid for? And what the hell's  wrong with just saying 'NO' from time to time? I could shake them. But I don't, of course. They just get the gerbil look.  As do gangs of school children, looking so lovely in their uniforms, whilst yelling the foulest of language at each other in the street.  And the shouting thing itself gets me going. Why can't they just speak, for goodness sake? We don't all want to know that Shelley's a cock sucking slag do we? No, we don't. And they put their feet up on the seats on trains, and wear those stupid trousers that display their saggy undergarments, and stare at their bloody mobile 'phones all the time, even when you're speaking to them, which is SO rude, and ride their bikes on the pavement and don't wear enough clothes in cold weather. So there! And, worst of all, they sometimes assume that those of us with grey hair know absolutely nothing about anything,  overlooking the fact that our age means we've had time to get up to a hell of a lot more than they have thus far, so maybe, just maybe, we might not be completely stupid.

And breathe. I feel better for getting that off my chest. And what's the conclusion? Probably that every generation is annoying to a previous one in its own, particular way.  I wore my skirts offensively short so I should be able to tolerate those glimpses of dingy y-fronts. Those lads wont be wearing their silly pants ten years from now, anymore than I went on wearing minis. They'll probably be suited and booted and trying to pay the mortgage, poor sods. There may be years between the old and the young, but not much else, other than some nuances of manners, maybe. It has ever been thus and a spot of tolerance, on both sides, is probably all that's needed.
But there's no need to SPIT!

8. Vino, Vans and the Pursuit of Happiness.

I've been pondering the nature of loss. Which sounds deep and philosophical, but I'm not a deep or philosophical person so it wasn't, but it did have me thinking about priorities and the ways in which we come to terms with those bad bits that must occur in everybody's life at some point.  Surely, even those who, on the surface at least, appear to lead charmed lives must have the occasional off day. And to be honest, I don't have much truck with the 'charmed life' concept anyway. I once new a woman who claimed to have led precisely that, a charmed life. She said it proudly, with the sort of smug smile that made me want to shake her warmly by the throat, and she then related the most boring litany of events I have ever been forced to hear. Indeed, I use the word 'events' advisedly as I think it might imply episodes far more thrilling than anything she came up with. This same woman would text me excitedly to give me the breathlessly arousing news that she'd just made three madeira cakes. You can picture her now, can't you? A tidy woman with a tidy life in a tidy house with a tidy husband, who probably never dared to crumple the bedsheets with any of that unhygienic slap and tickle, and an existence of terrible tedium in which absolutely nothing was permitted to happen that might ruffle the tidiness of it all. If that's 'charmed' then give me blighted any day.

 Not that I begrudge anybody having a nice time. It's what I want too, but this woman of whom I speak was so bland and so boring that everybody avoided her like the plague. There was something incomplete about her. I had the following conversation with Kate, a mutual acquaintance:

Kate: D'you get loads of texts from J?

Me: Oh yes.

Kate: Right.

Pause....

Kate: Are yours just a load of old wank?

Me: Oh yes.

Glances of shared sympathy were exchanged and we moved on.
 I think it's the rough and tumble of life, the things that knock a few edges off us, that end up making us into proper people, with experiences and thoughts and views and, most importantly, empathy for others when life's jumped up and punched them in the mouth. We can only do that if  we have an inkling of how it feels ourselves. If the worst thing that's happened to you is that your Victoria Sponge didn't rise it's a poor look out.

So, back to my bad bits and those losses that I mentioned a while back. I should point out that we didn't rate them as devastating, but they were a pain.The first one has a nebulous feel to it as what was lost existed somewhere in cyberspace.  Middle daughter was in residence for a while and using my laptop. As is our family tradition, she had a large glass of red wine at her elbow whilst she tapped away at the keys. We were all chatting pleasantly amongst ourselves when an ill-judged flick of the wrist resulted in the red wine, which was supposed to end up in middle daughter, ending up all over the keyboard of the laptop. A flurry of activity ensued with much mopping and reassurances to distressed daughter that it could have happened to any of us (which it could) but the mopping, at least, was to no avail. Apparently, the acid in wine can destroy your hard drive even faster than your liver and by the time we got it to the recovery man all was lost. Now, we should (of course) have taken the sensible precaution of having everything backed up but we (of course) had not, so I was left ruminating on all the stuff that was gone forever, and wondering just where it had been in the first place. All those little icons representing hundreds of images and thousands of words. Had all of that been hovering in the ether somewhere, waiting for me to summon it up? I like using modern technology, but I've no firm grip on how it works. And I don't want you to try and explain it to me because I still wouldn't understand, I don't have the right sort of mind. Actually, you could tell me it was all down to a network of tiny elves and I'd be happy to go with that.

But back to the losses. I mourn the passing of the lost 'photo albums and I've now decided that the digital camera isn't the boon we all take it to be. Sure, we can snap away to our hearts content and, in keeping with these times of instant gratification, we can then just download the results straight onto our computers, cutting out the business of having to take them to be developed and then waiting for days before collecting our efforts. And don't get me started on taking pictures with mobile 'phones. I'm sick to death of people insisting on handing me their mobile to inspect a tiny image on a tiny screen and having to nod and smile admiringly whilst having no clue as to what I'm looking at.  I have to take it on trust that it's 'me and our Sheila at that barbecue I told you about.' I don't disgrace my self by saying, 'D'you know what, if you hadn't told me I'd have thought it was someone beheading a duck,' or whatever it looks like to me as I squint at the stupid thing, but I'm always uneasy about making the right response. But back to the old days, when the waiting had an excitement all its own, even though the anticipation was rarely matched by the results. Now we can see immediately how shamefully pissed we looked at somebody's party or that we cut everybody's heads off in the group photo. But, joy of joys, we can instantly delete the disasters, before anybody gets the chance to snatch the shameful image from our hands, crying, 'Let's see,' before we can grab it back and tear it to shreds. Now it's just the click of a button and it's gone.  However, it also means we might miss out on the pleasure that our family enjoys from time to time, usually when all the children are visiting, and we'll spend an evening with the few albums I actually got round to putting together, but mostly the jumble of 'photos that I've chucked into boxes, recalling holidays and picnics and family occasions, laughing at what we were wearing or trying to remember all the names in a gang of school friends. It's not the same, all squashed shoulder to shoulder in front of a screen flicking through the images, rather than comfortably sprawled, with the pictures passing from hand to hand. But despite this nostalgic leaning towards a good old Snappy Snaps print, I too had succumbed to the digital age, and more recent pictorial records had ended up on my laptop. Now they're gone and, having emptied my camera's memory after downloading, they no longer exist, anywhere.  I see this as an excellent argument for a return to the good old Box Brownie. 

I also lost all twenty five thousand words of the dissertation I wrote for my English MA. I suppose the hard copy that I had to have bound and then presented for assessment still exists somewhere, buried in the vaults of the university library, which is probably the best place for it, and if I really wanted it I could request a photocopy.  But I'm not convinced I would ever have been moved to read it again anyway, so I doubt I'll bother.  To be honest, I'll probably be more inconvenienced by the loss of my Christmas card list, complete with changes of address, and of names of partners. I'm going to miss that. So, despite the initial feelings of despair over the disappearance of all those words and pictures, I reckon I can live without them.  And we've learnt a valuable lesson about making sure we back it all up in the future. Or, and here's a radical idea, we could go back to printing off our pictures and writing things down, on paper. Alternatively, I could make sure there's never any red wine near to the computer, but that would be a step too far.

The next loss was rather more shocking. On a bright and sunny morning, a couple of weeks back, I went downstairs, made myself my habitual mug of tea and wandered into the front room. I stood at the window to survey the street.  I had an excellent view. I had far too excellent a view. It took me a minute to realise what was wrong. My view should have been partially obscured by our lovely little VW Campervan. It was not. I stared at the space where it should have stood and I went on staring, being gripped by the mad idea that if I did it for long enough the van would magically re materialise. It didn't, of course, but I couldn't believe it had gone. I peered up and down the road, hoping for some clue as to what had happened, but all I saw what the enormous tabby from number fourteen, scratching itself, and the cheerful woman from twenty eight, heading off with the tartan shopping trolley that we all know she fills with the cheap cooking sherry she imbibes throughout the day, which  probably has a bearing on why she's so unfailingly jolly. But whatever floats your boat, that's what I say.

So, I summoned the help of the local constabulary and they dispatched a delightful policeman, who must have been all of thirteen, to assess the situation. He was kind and sympathetic but dispiritingly pessimistic as to our chances of getting it back, and it seems he was right as it's been a while now and there's still no sign of it.  I'm both angry and upset about this loss, and find myself wishing unspeakable horrors on the ne'er do wells responsible and ranting about how we worked hard to get the money to buy it and why couldn't they do the same if they wanted one. In short, I have to keep slapping down the Daily Mail reader within and reminding myself that I'm a Guardian woman of liberal mindset and balanced opinions. I'm trying to keep things in perspective, reminding myself that far worse things happen to people and I should count myself lucky. The thief may have led a far from charmed life and his need might be greater than mine. But it's hard.  And even more than the loss of the van, I'm grieved by the loss of the contents. The teapot was a dear little yellow thing, bought for me by a daughter from her very first pay packet when she got herself a Saturday job in sixth form. Now some thieving bastard has their filthy, criminal paws on it. See? I keep getting cross and turning  nasty. Aforementioned policemen (who turned out to be a sergeant, so must have joined the force as an embryo) has kept us updated on...well...nothing really. He just rings and says they still haven't found it so now we're waiting to see what sort of a pittance the insurance company comes up with.  It'll probably be enough for a tandem and a tent.
So there it is, and life still goes on pleasantly enough.  I have a bike and a bus pass and all my bits are working so I'm not confined to the house by the absence of what was our only vehicle. And all that twaddle in my dissertation has undoubtedly been said better, elsewhere by someone else. It's no great drama and we've pretty much come to terms with it. I wonder if this equilibrium is something to do with age? I think it is. As time passes, and I become increasingly aware that the time I can expect ahead is getting considerably shorter than the time I've already had, I'm convinced that, actually, there's very little that REALLY matters. The people I love come top of the list, naturally, and I think it's important to retain  a compassionate view on the world, but not much else springs to mind. It's rather liberating.
I have most certainly not had a charmed life. I've experienced events that were so devastating at the time that  I felt sure I'd never smile again.  But I did. And it all helped me to get my priorities sorted. It's called life. It's supposed to be messy. How can it not be if you choose to engage with it fully. So, onward and upward and let's live dangerously. Pour the wine, I'm firing up the laptop!

7. Bores and Babies and Egg Warmers

What do you think to the idea of a good slug of Baileys on your cornflakes as a mood-lifting start to the day? Not good? I only ask because I'm feeling a bit bereft at the moment, following the departure of middle daughter plus grandchildren after a longish stay. They've gone back home which,
in their case, is nearly the other side of the sodding world and it's left me contemplating the whole issue of grandparenthood.

You see, I never wanted to be a grandmother. I don't mean I hated the idea, not at all, just that I never craved it in the way that some women I've met obviously do.  I have been unwaveringly convinced I could remain happy and fulfilled with or without them. I certainly craved my own children, oh yes indeed! Mother Nature gave me a sharp kick, the old maternal instinct sprang into life and I yearned for dimpled babes to dandle on my knee. However, as I lay, a-labouring-oh, wailing in anguish and bemoaning what was a blatantly obvious design fault in the female anatomy, I was certainly not thinking, gleefully, 'oh goody, this means that one day I can be a grandma.' Absolutely not.  Apart from anything else, I was rather taken up with the business of the moment, as my children sprang from my loins. Except, of course, they don't spring do they? Springing is the last thing they do, and that's the problem.

I don't see why evolution couldn't have decreed that we laid eggs, which seems so much more sensible. And these days you wouldn't even have to stay at home and do all that sitting on them to keep them warm.  There'd be handy patent egg warmers, designed to suit every decor, that would do the job for you whilst you went about your daily business, untramelled by worries of egg temperatures.  You'd just check for signs of cracking every now and again, and then be ready with a damp flannel when it hatched.  Or we could have had teeny, tiny little babies like the ones kangaroos have, so small that the mother barely notices it's arrived until it climbs into her pouch. Not that I'm keen on the pouch thing. I don't know how fastidious your average kangaroo is but it must get pretty messy in there, and cleaning it out could be a nightmare.  There again, somebody would probably have come up with a nifty little attachment you could just pop on the nozzle of your Hoover. But this is all by-the-way. At no time, during the production of my own children, did it cross my mind to worry about whether or not they might, in time, go down the parenthood path themselves.  It was of no particular importance to me, but I have met a great many people for whom the matter looms large and I could never quite get to grips with their obsessional views on the subject.

Once you have grown-up children you will meet certain people, mostly women it has to be said, who will grill you as to the state of your offspring's fecundity as if that is the most important thing about them. My first mother-in-law was one such person, in that grandmotherhood and the prompt production of babies meant a lot to her, but I wish to state, here and now, that I was deeply fond of her. She was a lovely woman in every way but, when I was but a few months into the marriage, and showing no signs of being up the duff, her disappointment in us was palpable.  We, of course, had no plans for starting a family so early in our union, thinking it wiser to get some furniture before a family, and the poor woman would have to wait for three, long years before her wish was granted, by which time I'm sure she was convinced that we must be doing it wrong. She herself was inordinately proud of the fact that she had dropped her first sprog nine months to the day after her nuptials, bringing unbounded joy to one and all, and I fear she judged me to be a selfish little wretch with dubious, modern ways for failing to do likewise.

Now that my own children have reached maturity I keep finding myself in conversation with women who regard the whole issue of whether or not said children have children of their own yet and, if not, why not, of considerable interest to them.  I, of course, not being thick, am fully aware that these supposedly interested enquiries are but a ruse designed to enable them to hold forth, at tedious length, about how many grandchildren they can claim to their name. I fear I'm an unrewarding audience for these women as I honestly cannot see why I should then congratulate them for something that really has very little to do with them.  The fact that their kids have either been impregnated or, alternatively,  have been doing a spot of impregnating does not incline me to shower their mothers with praise and approbation. Not at all. Indeed, knowing some of their children, as I do, my strongest feeling is one of pity for the resulting babes. It's the Grans with a competitive edge that irritate me the most, reeling off numbers in a 'beat that' tone of voice, which has me gagging to point out that, as the planet is already over populated, all that procreative prowess is nothing to be proud of, and maybe they should be out buying their kids some condoms instead.

 I happen to have daughters and I regard their wombs, either full or empty, as entirely their own business. Yet these women of whom I speak seem to think it's fine to look at me pityingly and shake their heads in a sorrowful manner when I tell them that, thus far, two daughters remain, very happily, childless. And if that continues to be the case then I, for one, will not be losing any sleep over it.  Now, I don't want you getting the wrong idea about me.  I'm as inordinately proud a mother as the next bore, but I'm more likely to fix you with a gimlet eye and tell you how fabulously well my children are doing in their chosen careers, or how much I admire their bravery and their fascination with the wider world as one them sets off to trek across the mountains of China on a horse, or I'll boast about anothers compassion as she walks the cobbles of Mexico City giving food to street children. I'll do all the showy-off stuff in buckets and, for good measure, I'll probably throw in a few anecdotes about my grandkids too, as it just so happens they are remarkably bright and beautiful and funny and utterly adorable, but what I won't do is try and take credit for any of it.  And I won't assume you warrant sympathy if you have no children of your own, grand or otherwise.

 I have always held the theory that having children is not compulsary.  Sadly, I fear that many (not all) couples do adhere to the view that, if you have been together for a while, got the house, car, stuff, then the next move must be to have the family, without giving any deep or serious thought to whether or not this is really what they want. Or if, perhaps, they are merely fulfilling the wishes of their respective families to acquire those pictures that can be proudly handed round at coffee mornings. Having been a foster-carer at one point in my life I am here to tell you that an awful lot of people out there should never, ever have become parents. Not everybody is cut out for it.  Not everybody wants it. No pressure should ever be applied.

I can honestly say that I've never regretted having my children. Not for one moment. But I can also appreciate the benefits of the childless life and I suppose, in a way, I've been reminded of that recently. It was great having the house full again, as all our daughters wanted to spend as much time as possible with each other and the babies. It was all the best possible fun. And I loved having the company of the five year old as we picked beans together at the bottom of the garden, or made cakes. She reminded me of how a sink full of bubbles can be fun rather than just washing up and she could make me laugh till I cried.  I really didn't mind being woken by a two year old with a smile like the sun, despite the fact that the hour was ungodly.  I liked going into his room as  he slept to kiss those cheeks that only small children can do so well. I melted when he cuddled up to me on the sofa and gripped two of my fingers in his sticky little hand.  It was a joy to spend so much time with them and they are  fabulous children. But they're my daughter's achievement, not mine.

 And now they're gone again, and I miss them, as I think I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, yet I can't deny the pleasure I take in having a few scallops in garlic butter with a nice green salad for my lunch rather than fish fingers and beans. I suppose I've grown selfish. On balance, I probably prefer an hour or two in an art gallery, followed by a gin and tonic and a gossip with a good mate than an afternoon on a bench in a playground.  Does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. I've done my stint, from choice, and revelled in the rewards.  Just don't expect to find me at the coffee morning, handing round the photographs (and there are lots of them) whilst other women pretend an interest. That's not my thing. I promise not to show you mine if you don't show me yours.

6. Schools, Sadists and Sashes

You don't actually have to be chronologically old to qualify as an 'old girl', or an 'old boy', for that matter.  The minute you walk out through the gates of your secondary school, for the very last time, you become an 'old girl/boy' of that establishment. I imagine it's a joyous occasion for most of us.

 Whoever it was who came up with that ludicrous statement about your school days being the happiest of your life must have been deranged, deluded or had the amazing luck to have been sent to a school situated somewhere in Fairyland.  It wasn't my experience. I couldn't get out fast enough.  I disliked pretty much everything about it.  The hideous, navy blue uniform, all those stupid rules - a couple of examples being always having to walk down corridors exactly three tiles in from the wall and never being seen in your school uniform eating a lolly-ice in the street...yes,really...and oh, so many more, all dreamed up by our ironically named Headmistress, Miss Merry.

Then there were the sadistic teachers, the horrible homework and the gruesome school dinners. So far as I was concerned it was a hell hole that smelt of floor polish, over boiled mince and something else that I could never quite put my finger on, but it was utterly revolting, so not putting a finger on it was probably for the best. I prefer not to dwell on it. But one of the very worst aspects of school, from my personal perspective, was the lesson known as PE.  Physical Education. Those words can still make my blood run cold.

 I was the least sporty teenager you could possibly imagine so, for me, being forced out onto a hard frozen hockey pitch, shivering in navy blue knickers and Aertex shirt, to slither about on the frosted mud whilst other, more viciously inclined girls, aimed for my ankles with their sticks or scooped the cement hard ball towards my skull, was pure torture.  And if that wasn't bad enough, when the misery of the so called 'game' was over we were herded back inside, blue with cold, and forced into the communal showers were we all tried, desperately, to avoid any sort of contact with the clammy skin of the girl huddled next to us in that trough of shame. Resolutely fixing our eyes on the tiled wall we would stand, shivering, beneath a trickle of lukewarm water for as short a time as we could get away with before scuttling into the changing room and dragging our clothes onto our still damp bodies in an effort to end the whole, humiliating business as quickly as possible.  I doubt it would be allowed today.  It'd be regarded as some sort of abuse, which indeed it was in my opinion.

And then there was that torture chamber, the gym, with the awful horse thing you're supposed to be able to vault over. I did see other girls, propelling themselves above it and flying through the air like swallows, but for me it was akin to hurling myself at a brick wall. And, just supposing I'd been able to get over the wretched thing, what good would this have done me in later life?  I've never seen a job description that included, 'the ability to leapfrog over large, fixed objects without breaking a limb or knocking all the breath out of your body.' And don't even get me started on Netball, Rounders, Athletics (I still bear the scars from catching my foot on the top of that bloody hurdle!) and all the other wretched activities some fool thought were an essential part of the educational experience. 

In fact, now I look back, there was very little that I learned in that establishment that was of the remotest use to me in real life, and those shreds that have proved beneficial could easily have been imparted to me over a period of a couple of years, at most, saving everyone concerned a lot of time, money and misery.  You'll have got the picture.  I was not a happy school girl. I quite liked being in Choir and Drama Club, but they were extra-curricular anyway, so didn't really count. The best parts of my day were the cycle rides there and back and I've never lost my love of riding my bike, but for the rest of the day I just wanted to escape into the big, wide world which, I was quite sure, would bring about a vast improvement to my quality of life, and I was right! From the moment I left life was a hell of a lot more fun.

And then, a couple of months ago, completely out of the blue, I received an email informing me that some idiot had decided to hold a reunion for the class of...whenever it was, I can't actually remember, it's oo far back, over fifty years in fact.  Anyway, this woman had tracked me down, by a means too convoluted to go into here, telling me when and where my old classmates would be foregathering for an evening of wine, nibbles and catching up.  The 'catching-up' bit struck me as a trifle optimistic considering the high number of the intervening years.  I thought it might take rather more than one evening for us all to relate so much history.

The thing is, I've never been big on the whole reunion idea.  I'm of the belief that, if you haven't bothered to stay in touch with somebody then there's probably a damned good reason for it.  At it's simplest, you probably just didn't get on and had nothing in common.  At its more complicated, you hated each others guts.  Either way, they're excellent reasons for not bothering with some people, whilst choosing to hang around with the ones you like and who like you. The concept of friendship, in a nutshell. So why do some people think it's an excellent idea for us all to seek each other out again? Surely it only serves to remind us of why we decided to give each other a wide berth in the first place, which isn't necessarily the making of a convivial gathering.

And another thing.  When you get a large group of women together there's all that pressure over the way you look.  Who's developed the most wrinkles, put on the most weight, looks the biggest mess (thus, she will be despised) or looks completely fabulous (thus, she will be despised)?  Such a worry. Sure, you might come back feeling on top of the world, having shaped up fairly well by comparison, but there's an equally good chance you'll want to cut your wrists. Such a risk. So, what did I do? Send a curt, but polite, reply declining the invite?  Don't be ridiculous!  I went, obviously.

I'm only human and of course I couldn't resist the opportunity of finding out if Stella, she of the blonde hair, rule flouting tendencies and penchant for doing whatever it was she did with boys behind bike sheds, had indeed gone to hell in a handcart, as predicted by all the teachers. Had clever, studious Beth fulfilled her early promise and gone on to be something terribly high-powered? My natural nosiness is way stronger than my scruples and the appointed date found me wearing slimming black, with freshly cut hair and carefully applied make-up turning up at the selected venue. 

I made a tentative entry into the room and looked around. Then I wondered if I was in the wrong place, and herein lay the first problem.  I didn't recognise anybody, not a single soul.  Even those to whom the years have been kind are going to be a bit changed by the passage of half a century. The woman who'd organised it was obviously keeping an eye on the door and came to my rescue. I looked at her and, somewhere in there, I could just about find the pretty, mild mannered girl I'd last seen sniffling into her hanky, as she pushed her bike out of the school gates for the last time.  So I suppose it makes sense that she was the one who decided we should reunite, being one of the few people I'd known who happened to like the place and was sorry to leave.
Me. 'Barbara?'
Her. 'Yes!'
Me. 'How lovely to see you again!'
Her. 'And you.' (pause) 'Who are you? I'll do you a name badge?'
Right, so I now know that I too have been changed beyond all recognition.  I feel really great about that. I tell her my name, my maiden name, the one these people will remember me by.  I've had a couple of husbands in the intervening time, and the name changes that went with them. I will be proudly trotting out this fact during the course of the evening as I was a bit of a late developer, on the boyfriend front, and I am sure that some of those here present will be surprised to hear I've ever had sex at all.  My badge is pinned to my chest and I sally forth, into the fray.

I grab a glass of wine from the table and down quite a lot of it, very quickly, whilst surveying the assembled throng.  They all seem to be in animatedly chatting groups.  I must break into one.  I aim for the one that's doing the most laughing.  It's as good a strategy as any.  I've nearly reached my goal when a small woman literally jumps in front of me, shrieking, 'It's you, isn't it?  It is! Isn't it? It's you?!!'  I confirm that I am, most certainly, me. She grins and nods at me enthusiastically, willing me to recognise her.  She keeps bobbing up and down, like a small, grey haired Tigger so it's hard to focus on her name badge.  And then I manage it. 'Gillian!', I cry, trying to match her level of excitement.  I do remember her, vaguely, but we weren't even in the same Form, let alone friends, so I'm not sure why she's so evidently delighted to see me.

'Oh gosh,' she goes on, 'I'm really glad you came.' I can't help myself, I'm too overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events, and I blurt out, 'Are you? That's nice. Why?' She has hold of my arm by now, and is steering me towards the group that she has presumably just bounced out of. 'Well, because of that thing you did,' she replies, a bit worryingly. I did a thing? A good thing or a bad thing? A thing I would want to remember? A thing I would choose to have remembered by others?' Shit. I've only just got here and I'm having a 'Thing' crisis. As we near the group I try to think what on earth she's talking about, but nothing springs to mind.  I suppose she could have mistaken me for somebody else.  Somebody who did a memorable 'Thing'. We're there, I'm thrust into the midst of the group and Gillian anounces my name, the right name, so I AM the girl that did the 'Thing'.

 It all becomes a bit of a blur after that as people tell me their names and some make immediate sense and some need a bit of thinking about but, eventually, I've got them all sorted and it's fine, and we're talking about jobs, marriages, families, stuff you're supposed to talk about at reunions, and I'm quite enjoying it, I can hold my own. I've had jobs and men and children and I'm doing ok. I'm not the high flyer, but I'm not the saddo either. And I've forgotten all about the 'Thing'. I'm getting into my swing and have just made everyone laugh with a story at the expense of my first husband (he deserved it, he wasn't a nice man, don't go feeling sorry for him) when Gillian interjects with, 'Oh, I really wish I'd spoken to you at school, and kept in touch and everything. I've never forgotten.  I've always been sorry I didn't say more at the time. It was all my fault really. I was so pleased when Barbara said you were coming.'  We all turn and look at her. 

I know, with a sinking feeling, that the 'Thing' is about to raise its bewildering head once more. By this point someone has been round replenishing our glasses, and I'm riding high on alcohol and laughter, so I have the courage to ask, point blank, 'WHAT DID I DO?' Poor Gillian blinks at me behind her sensible glasses. 'You took a stand,' she says, quietly. I feel worse. Not only have I done a 'Thing' of which I have no recollection, but I've now barked a question at this nice woman, and the 'Thing' was, apparently, quite a good 'Thing', so my position as nice person may have been damaged by the barking bit.

'Did I?' I ask meekly. And then everybody's talking at once.  It seems they all recall the 'Thing'. And now, reluctantly, so do I. 

The trouble is that I, prompted by the memories of others, can conjure up an event that I regarded as best forgotten.  It was like this. In my final year at the aforementioned school/gulag I was, surprisingly, made a prefect.  My position was denoted by the wearing of a green sash around my waist and an enamelled badge pinned to my cardigan.  It involved certain duties, which were allocated on a weekly basis.  One week, during a particularly bleak February, I was charged with patrolling the corridors in order to eject any poor soul who thought they might be able to remain indoors during break time, rather than to take their chances in the wind and rain lashed playground (if ever an area was ill-named...) thereby risking hypothermia and the devastating effects of hail on the adolescent skin. 

My feelings about being entrusted with this mission were mixed.  It meant that I could remain cosily, and legally, indoors myself, which was a bonus.  But I was required to confront those that would try and flout this law and eject them, into the maelstrom.  I was a cowardly child and not keen on confronting anyone so, if I found girls lurking in the cloakrooms, for example, I'd probably suggest they decamped to a cubicle in the toilets, where they were less likely to be detected, than actually chucking them out. I did this because I feared they might hurt me if I told them to go outside.

Then, one day, whilst doing a corridor patrole, I happened upon a small, weedy girl with a streaming cold, crouched by a radiator and doing her maths homework, and I chose to stroll on by.  It wasn't that I was totally above pulling rank on those even weaker than myself and, I admit, to my shame, that if I could be sure there was absolutely no danger of violence being visited upon my person, I had sometimes enjoyed doing my prefect act and pushing those younger and smaller than me about a bit.  Not physically, just telling them to make sure they were walking three tiles in, and that sort of thing. Now you're probably thinking I deserved that nasty husband but I'm not proud of myself. I'd just never had any sort of power before and it might have gone to my head a tad.

Well, I let this kid stay in, unaware that, a few minutes later, a teacher would be rounding the corner and seeing the self, same kid. She'd ask her how come she was there? Kid would say I'd let her stay there. Teacher would report matter to Headmistress. I would be summoned to her office. It was that sort of school.  No misdemeanour, however minor, went unpunished.  In fact...and you probably wont believe this, but it's true...one poor girl got expelled for writing the name of her pop idol on the label in a bowl of the hyacinths that adorned the window ledges of the corridors. Yes! EXPELLED! Nowadays you'd have to spray paint 'Mr. Wilson is a cunt,' in three foot high letters on the science block wall before they'd even think about it, and even then they'd probably try offering the offender some sort of therapy before actually throwing them out.  But there you go, they were harsh days.

Thus it was that I found myself in the terrifying environs of Miss Merry's office.  I don't remember much about the interview, except that my knees were literally knocking against each other, so high was my terror level. I do know she gave me that whole spiel that always starts with ,'You've let the school down...' and, after a longish litany of people and things that have been let down, ends with, '...but most of all, you've let yourself down.' I hung my head, in my sheepish way, and made no defence.  I knew it would be futile anyway. She wasn't a woman you argued with.  I merely awaited the pronouncement of my punishment, for punishment I knew there must be, Miss M. not being big on second chances.

And so it was that the following day, with the entire school gathered in the Hall for Morning Assembly, that I was denounced as a disgrace to the office of prefect, an abuser of the trust that had been placed in me and an appalling example to the younger children in the school who would have been looking up to me for guidance. I had my doubts about that last one, but was in no position to start contradicting her. She went on at some length, warming to her theme until it reached a point where I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd laid the blame for the poor state of the local bus service squarely at my door. She eventually ran out of sins to rain on my shameful head and the worst of the whole, humiliating business had to be gone through. 

I was required to do the walk of shame, down the length of the hall, up the steps onto the stage, approach Miss Merry, seated at the desk in the middle, and then, having arrived in front of her, remove my green sash and my enamelled badge and hand them over, the whole thing executed (good word, in this context) in awful silence.  I think that even something sonorous, like a bit of Beethoven, would have been better than that silence.  Then I had to continue across the stage, down the steps the other side and back down the hall to my seat. I reckoned I now knew how those disgraced soldiers felt when they had their swords broken across the knee of their Captain and their epaulets torn off.

The whole episode caused me the most acute embarrassment and I think I must have made it clear to my friends that I really didn't want to talk about it.  I was leaving shortly afterwards so I just wanted to keep my head down, do the time and get the hell out of the place. And then, I kid you not, I'd blotted out the whole, wretched business from that day forth. And now, thanks to bloody Gillian, everyone was talking about it again.

It was weird, like I imagine time travel would be as all the emotions of those awful, scary, shameful couple of days surged up again and I was transported back into the body of that girl with the flaming cheeks and the shaky legs and the sense that everybody was looking at her and sniggering, or thinking how stupid she was or how hopeless at being a prefect, or something along those lines.  Nothing flattering, certainly. I had never, ever been in trouble at school before.  I was a bit of a goody goody, if truth be told, so I'd found the whole episode traumatic. 

But, wait!  All these women are smiling at me, saying how sorry they'd felt for me, how unfair they'd thought it was and Gillian, who was indeed that small, snotty girl clinging to the radiator, is hailing me as her heroine and expressing regret at having not thanked me at the time. They all remember. Good grief! This is an unexpected turn of events. I am seen as having taken a stand when, really, all I did was fail to put up any resistance.  I accepted my fate and took my punishment without so much as whimper.  If I'd had any inkling of what what was going to happen to me I'd have thrown poor Gillian out into the storm as soon as look at her.  I know this in my heart of hearts. I am tempted to say as much.  But it was fifty years ago, during an otherwise unremarkable school career. I'd made no particular impact, either sporting or academic. And now, suddenly, I am hailed as having been, within that tiny, insignificant pool, an ever so slightly heroic fish. Some of these women regard me as a brave flouter of foolish rules.  Gillian thinks I acted out of compassion for a little girl with a cold. And so, rightly or wrongly, I go my cowardly way and leave it at that. Is it so very wrong to prefer people to remember you in a good light than not to remember you at all?  I'm still not sure. Maybe I should have cried out, 'No, no, that's not how it was. I just folded.'  But what I did do was stay silent, accept another glass of wine and change the subject, sharpish.

I certainly haven't had my mind changed about reunions.  I'm pretty sure I never did anything else remotely memorable that's just waiting to be unearthed.  And if there is then there's also a very good chance it's better left buried.  A few of us exchanged email addresses and mobile numbers but I doubt I'll ever feel moved to actually contact any of them, and I'm sure that, in the cold light of a sober day, they will have felt pretty much the same. Oh, and Stella had indeed lived up to all those early predictions for her future and gone completely off the rails, and she looked bloody marvellous on it!

5. Old Hags and Shopping Bags.

So where's Gok Wan when you need him?  Not in my cubicle, that's for sure. I look in the mirror. I like the dress, it's a nice dress, it's the right size and it fits a treat. I look at the dress. The dress continues to look nice. It's very pretty. I look up, at the face above the dress.  Hmmm, not so sure.  Is it enough that I like the frock and it fits, or do I have to give long and careful thought as to whether or not it is a suitable item for a woman of my age to wear?  Is there a danger I might be mocked in the streets if I step outside in this garment?  And should I give a damn, either way?  It's tricky. 

I was a child of the sixties, when we all rejoiced in having fashions designed purely for us, just us and only us. Bliss! All of a sudden, overnight as it seemed, we were no longer destined to swap our gymslips for a replica of what our mother's were wearing (which, in my case, would have been florall pinnies and head scarves - not a good look) because there were whole shops full of clothes aimed at nobody but us teenage girls, and we loved it, we embraced it and life was made simple and joyful, all in one go. In a swirly patterned mini-dress, with white tights, white Courreges boots and my hair carefully ironed straight with the aid of brown paper and the essential ability not to singe my ears in the process, I was ready to face the world unafraid, confident in the knowledge that I'd got it right.  No question. And thus it went on, pretty much. I got married, in a white, satin mini, naturally.  And I looked bloody marvellous, though I do say so myself.  Then, expecting my first baby, I wore bright, mini length smocks which drew the disapproving glances of elderly ladies, which pleased me no end as I gloried in my youthful fecundity, and brazonly cast back pitying looks  at them, and their shrivelled, barren bodies.  You have to forgive me.  I was young, naive and, yes, a bit full of myself...as well as baby.

Life progressed.  Fashions changed.  I tried to keep abreast but, with a growing family, diminishing bank balance and little time for anything other than the more basic realities of life it wasn't always easy.  After a night with a sleepless baby, and older children to get ready for school I considered it a good day if I'd had a wash and got the toast out of my hair (now left to go its curly, shapeless way) before leaving the house to do the school run.  And  that brings me to another thing!  Sorry to head off on a bit of a tangent here, but what's all this with the Yummy-Mummy phenomena? I see them all, sitting outside the coffee shops of Blackheath or Hampstead, or wherever, sipping a Skinny Latte with the Bugaboo parked by the chair and their perfect size eight figures, and immaculate make-up and swingy hair and I'm filled with a mixture of admiration and loathing.  How do they do it?  It seems that the current fashion is both to have the ultimate accessorie of a baby whilst not looking, in any way, as if you have ever given birth. The pressure must be immense! And when on earth do they find time to do anything at all with the poor baby when their own beauty regime must be so high maintenance? It exhausts me just to think about it. But I digress.  Back to what I was talking about. For me, young motherhood, meant doing the best I could on a severely limited budget.  Jumble sales and charity shops came to my rescue.  Not only was there the fun of rummaging through piles of other peoples stuff and wondering why on earth anybody would have wanted an orange brocade jumpsuit ( a bit Guantanamo Bay ) in the first place, but there was the added thrill of knowing that, at any moment, you might hit upon the Holy Grail of a fabulous garment, in the right size, and just what you're looking for, for the princely sum of forty pence.  Result!

If you're youngish and prettyish you can get way with wearing all sorts of stuff, no matter how eclectic, and still look reasonably ok, still getting an occasional admiring glance, if you're lucky and not too fussy about the glancer.  I was content.  I was a happy mum, enjoying life and managing with whatever came to hand.  It was fine. At least I thought it was until my children got to secondary school age and the 'Parent's Evening' event loomed large each year.  It was the day before this nerve racking date on the calendar, when I would be required to sit in front of my middle daughter's teachers, smiling proudly and hoping I would not be told that the child I adored and saw as perfect in every way was actually the terror of the classroom and despair of her teachers.  Middle daughter was just off to bed when she paused at the living room door, hesitated for a moment and then said these words, 'Mum, what were you thinking of wearing tomorrow?' I looked at her dear, little face. There was anxiety in her blue eyes, and I understood immediately.  The entire school would see her mother and I would be judged, not by my intellect, wit or charm but, completely and entirely by what I was wearing, and there was a grave possibility that I would not come up to snuff! By some miracle I was sensitive enough to understand what was required and mentally searched my wardrobe for the most sober of its contents, presenting them as my costume of choice.  A flicker of relief crossed her face and she went off to her bed, comforted by the knowledge that I would not turn up in front of nice Mr. Clayhorn (who they all had a crush on) or critical Mrs. Benthom in my patchwork pants and floaty, mirrored top, completed by a fringed scarf wound round my head.  At least I had the sense to see what had happened.  I had become an ageing hippy.  If it was brightly coloured and baggy I was on it like a hawk on a field mouse.  It was easy, it was comfy, it was embarrassing. It had to change.

The uniform came to my aid.  My children all reached an age when I felt able to return to the workplace, first with the NHS, where I was required to turn up each day in a navy skirt teamed with a vile, nylon blouse with a sludge-coloured pattern that turned my complexion to mud.  It was awful.  I challenge Angelina Jolie to look good in that outfit, but it solved the problem of what I should wear.  I got out of bed, showered, put on the uniform, pinned my name badge to my lapel and I was ready to face the day.  It rendered me invisible, but when you spend your days confronting irate drug addicts and overwrought psychotics that's not, neccessarily, a bad thing.  Onwards and upwards, I got a position with the management team in an Arts organisation. Thereupon, I joined the suited and booted brigade.  Another uniform. No thought required. Plus, of course, I was earning again so could actually allow myself the luxury of an occasional shopping trip, to proper shops, to buy things that nobody else had worn before me.  Such Luxury! But unused to so much choice I found it hard to know exactly what it was that I liked.  If a friend gave me a hand-me-down I inevitably loved it and wore it to rags, but left to choose something from rail upon rail of clothes I discovered  I had no idea of what it was I was I was searching for.  Sometimes I'd drag a daughter or two along to help with the decision making and they were absolutley wonderful...at telling me what I'd look awful in. But not so hot on finding something they thought I could be allowed out in.  It was dispiriting and left me convinced that the clothes that would suit me had simply never been made.  And yet, purchases were made, of necessity if nothing else, and outfits put together, but I have never gained true confidence about what could be considered 'my look'.  I know I'm lucky in that I'm a standard size and their's plenty of choice out there.  It's just that so little of it turns out to be the choice I would choose!  I have stood in the middle of town, surrounded by all those huge shops, every one of them packed to the rafters with items of clothing. Thousands, maybe millions of garments are on display, and I have traipsed in and out of dozens of those shops and not found a single thing I wanted to wear.  Why is that? How can it be that the one thing I'm looking for doesn't exist?  And it can be intimidating. All those emporiums seem to be full of beautiful, shiny young shoppers and beautiful, shiny young assistants who look at you as if they want to ask you if you're lost, as you can't possibly imagine they cater to geriatrics in their lovely, shiny shop. I see other women, knees buckling under the weight of their many shopping bags, doubtless packed with dresses and tops and shoes and heaven knows what, whilst I, shamefully empty handed, trail dejectedly homewards.

And now it's getting worse, of course, and that's my point. Maybe I'd have coped better when, apparently, ladies were presented with a pair of beige, Crimplene slacks (whatever happened to the 'slack'?) and an all concealing, shapeless cardie, on the eve of their sixtieth birthday and, thus clad, were sent out into the world to advertise the fact that they'd given up on fashion and no longer gave a fuck.  But no, we've moved on, we have to be foxes, or cougars, or aardvarks or something.  We cannot relax.  We must maintain standards, but without ever tipping over that fine line that lands us in the area that is 'mutton dressed as lamb.'  That is the cardinal sin.  Now, I draw the line at surgical interventions to keep me looking presentable.  And anyway, I don't think immovable eyebrows and skin stretched so tight you have to talk through gritted teeth is particularly presentable.  But I'm sufficiently self-aware to want to be able to think that, if someone looks at me in the street - and I know, it's a big 'if' - they are at least thinking, 'She looks ok, for an old bird,' and not, 'Dear God, who let her out looking like that?'  So, back to my cubicle.  Can I wear this dress, in the outside world, without fear of frightening the horses and sending small children scuttling to the safety of their mother's skirts, or not?  Frankly, I haven't a clue. Bugger it.  Coffee and cake, here I come!

4. Sex and drugs and rock 'n roll

Having begun this blog with complaints about how much I've been prodded and patronised since passing the sixty mark I think I should now introduce some sense of balance by pointing out that I am not by nature a grumpy old woman and find much about the ageing process that I enjoy enormously. It even brings some benefits.  For a start, there are the free drugs.  Now, it so happens that I am a fit and healthy woman so I only profit from this boon to the tune of a couple of annual packets of Loratedine during the hay fever season.  However, when I had a minor cycling accident in London last year and mangled an ankle I was prescribed some pretty heavy duty codeine, for the pain, and that made me quite buzzy, which was nice. I think I'd have felt even better if I'd had the opportunity to mangle some vital bits of the White Van Man who caused me to end up on the tarmac in the middle of Canary Wharf, but you can't have everything - apparently.  And, naturally, I'm very happy to have such generally robust  health but I can't deny that there is a small part of me hoping that, when I get very old, I might develop an interesting condition that involves taking loads of heavy duty stuff and I'll finally get my fair share of the freebies. 

In the meantime there are plenty of other things for me to enjoy, such as that most treasured posession in my handbag, my free Bus Pass.  This little beauty allows me to hop on and off buses, all over England, without paying a penny for the privilege and I love it.  I had a bad moment, towards the end of last year, when it looked as if the slime-faced Cameron might be about to take it off me but he then changed his mind, which was a good call as he'd have had to fight me for it.  It's such a joy, not having to check if I've got the right change for my fare or having to use one of those horrendous machines in London, which always hurl your coins back at you, just as your bus draws up at the stop and you stand there, uttering curses and being observed with cold interest by the rest of the queue (I use the word 'queue' in its loosest term here as the entire concept seems to be unknown to the residents of Central London and it's every man/woman for him/herself as the vehicle arrives) as you kick the machine and generally behave like somebody unhinged.  No more! I can now glide onto the platform with aplomb as I flash my pass at the driver. I initially tried to develop that sort of sexy flick, like they use in US TV cop shows, with their badges, but never quite perfected it and I just looked like someone trying to get a bit of Sellotape off their fingers, so I gave up on that. Point is, as a result of knowing it wont cost me anything, I've embarked on all sorts of complex journeys happy in the knowledge that I can take a wrong turn and I'll be no worse off as a result, thus I embrace the adventure, and the more buses involved the better! I love getting value for...er...no money.

Something that the ageing process deprives us of, and which I most definitely do NOT miss, is the menstrual cycle.  Sorry if you're eating, or of a sensitive nature but, come on, let's be grown-ups about this.  How could I possibly regret the passing of that monthly event that turned me from a perfectly reasonable human being into a snarling, bile-spitting harpie? Does anyone really enjoy bloating up a dress-size and trampling underfoot anybody who gets between them and the chocolate shelf in the supermarket? Not me. I was only too happy to sail out of the maelstrom and into the calmer waters of the advancing years.  I know we're supposed to mourn the passing of our fecundity, and all that, but I was lucky enough to have satisfied my maternal longings with three, fabulous children. I'm not likely to want any more so why should I care if it's no longer possible anyway.  I see these women, in their sixties, having horribly expensive treatment in Italy in order to conceive and bring forth a child.  Well, good for them, and I hope it makes them happy, but I'm sure that, for lots of us, the knowledge that there's no longer any risk of pregnancy attached to our sexual indulgences is decidedly liberating. And that's another thing - surprise, surprise - the libido does not shrivel to dust as you pass fifty.  Indeed, many people have something of a resurgence when the aforementioned worries are removed, and add in the additional freedom of total privacy, grown-up children having left home, and it can result in renewed friskiness. I know that there is a bizarre squeamishness amongst the general population (mostly the younger element) about the concept of anybody over the age of fourty three having any sort of sexual inclinations whatsoever, which I find surprising when just about everything else regarding sex, however weird it might be, is now cheerfully acknowledged.  But there it is. Old people have sex too.  Get over it.

So that's the nub of the matter.  We're the same people now as we always were, just older.  I once worked in an Arts organisation were one department used to organise visits to our building. Groups would be shown round, given a talk, maybe sit in on a rehearsal, and finish off with tea and biccies.  One such group was the 'Over Fifties'. I was well over fifty myself by this point, but I just didn't get it, and said so to the lovely young colleague whose job involved arranging these trips for them.  I may have been more forceful about it than was warranted, or than she'd bargained for. But I couldn't understand why grown-up people would need to have their social activities sorted out for them. And who was it who decided on the 'suitable' things for them to do, and by what criteria did they make their decisions? As I think I might have said at the time, quite loudly, and possibly a little nastily, in response to said colleagues polite enquiry as to what I would like to do, if the decisions were mine, 'Oh for Fuck's sake, I want the same things now that I wanted when I was seventeen. Sex and drugs and rock n' roll!' Had I been responding more rationally I'd have said that if you're really interested in something you'll go and pursue it, of your own volition. I certainly didn't wake up, on my fiftieth birthday thinking, 'Oh my God, who's going to tell me what to like now, and where I should go to find it and when I should go there?'  My autonomy was till firmly intact.  Of course there is an argument for group activities.  It's great to share your enthusiasms with other, like minded people and I'm sure many people benefit from them, but labelling them according to age is just offensive in my opinion. So there it is.  I started out being all sweet and rational and have ended on yet another rant. Probably tells you a lot about me, but I'm just being honest.  Mabe if they substituted the tea and biscuits with gin and a joint I might consider joining.


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3. A Touchy Subject

Now this is a weird one.  It's something I've pondered on, long and hard, and I've come up with a couple of possible explanations, but I don't like them much. It is a widely, and correctly held, belief that if a child experiences uninvited physical attention it is peadophilia.  Move it on up a few years and it becomes sexual harrassment.  Quite right too. Shift along a bit further and suddenly, and inexplicably, you have reached an age when, apparently, you are fair game for squeezing, patting and generally gripping, in an over familiar manner, by total strangers. And you're not supposed to mind! Why is that? And why is it that, when the grippee recoils from the assault, it is the gripper who feels they have the right to look offended?  What the fuck's that about? The first time it happened to me it took me completely by surprise.  I could hardly believe that anyone would think it was fine to lay hands on somebody they'd never even met before, and that this overfamiliar action would be greeted with equilibrium, let alone with pleasure. It would certainly never occur to me to do such thing.  The only time I might see fit to visit any familiarity on a stranger, in a public place (or anywhere else, come to that)  would be if they had suffered some sort of health crisis and I thought I might be able to help.  Otherwise, I keep my hands strictly to myself. I don't know about you, but I think it's a good dictum.

I can remember that first time very clearly.  I was browsing in a local charity shop - I like a good charity shop, always have done, found some good stuff in charity shops - and I was looking through the book section, always one of my favourite places, minding my own business and leafing through a possible buy when, out of nowhere a large, shiny faced man of middle years and considerable bulk was swooping down upon me, with the merry quip, 'Looking for a bit of bedtime reading are we, love?' This Wildean wit was delivered in a booming voice and accompanied by a broad grin and a knowing chuckle, as he flung an arm round my shoulders and pulled me into his fleshy girth.  I was not  happy.  I was a lot of things, but happy wasn't one of them.  I was genuinely alarmed for a kick off, at the same time as being quite miffed and not a little revolted by this mans clammy attentions. I reacted instinctively. I jabbed my elbow into his well padded ribs and he let go and stepped away, with a look of total disbelief on his face. He then sidled off but continued to make his displeasure known by casting back baleful glances in my direction.  I looked around, ready to hear a little sympanthy for this gross invasion of my personal space, but none was forthcoming. Other shoppers continued contentedly about their business and one of the assistants even called a friendly, 'Bye Bill,' as my attacker left the shop.  Did I overeact? Maybe. Nobody else seemed unduly perturbed by him playing 'Grab-a Granny' with me. It's possible that Bill was some harmless bloke, regarded as a bit of a card by his friends (always supposing he had any) who thought he was just being friendly.  But it's my contention that he didn't actually think at all.  I'd like to guarantee that he would never have felt free to touch a younger woman in the same way, or to make what could have been interpreted as a mildly risque comment. He wouldn't dare.  But I was fair game, I was safe. He could do what he liked. No. Wrong!

Since then I have undergone many similar incidents.  Only this week, having approached a male assistant in a supermarket to ask the location of a particular item, he instantly put an arm around me and said, 'You come along with me dear and I'll show you.' Well meant, I've no doubt. But the over familiarity of the physical contact, coupled with the patronising 'dear' set my hackles rising like a very risen thing. I stood my ground, which brought him up sharp, seeing as he had hold of me at the time. He looked startled, I smiled sweetly. I said, 'If you can just tell me the aisle number I'm sure I can find it on my own.'  Again, I got that look of surprise and resentment, but he gave me the required information and I thanked him politely.  If we could just have done that in the first place there wouldn't have been a problem.  And I have to say that this rarely occurs when my interlocutor is a female.  Whether or not that is significant I don't know, it just reflects my personal experience. 

Now, we have to consider why these people imagine that their ill-conceived actions are just what we're longing for. I have to presume that they are labouring under the gross misconception that we will like it.  Do they, perhaps, imagine that women of my age are so unlovely that we must, ergo, be unloved and desperate for a sign of human affection, from any quarter, no matter how random, and we are positively grateful for these encounters and a casual groping, albeit of an asexual nature, will in some way nourish our withered souls. Not so.  I am a fortunate woman, with a husband, several children and many good friends, all of whom more that fulfil my requirements in the affection department. I am content, complete, without physical frustrations of any kind. So sod off!

To be fair, I suppose I also have to examine why these incidents make me so terribly angry.  Perhaps there are some people, more patient than I, who can just shrug them off and who really don't mind.  Well that's fine, but I can't. I find them intrusive and genuinely distressing, and I've always harboured a dislike of people making ill-informed assumptions about others.  However, I am prepared to admit to a whiff of double standards operating here.  If, for example, Johnny Depp where to pop out, from between the racks in Oxfam, and make free with me behind the flimsy curtain of the changing room you might well hear no peep of complaint from myself.  I have thereby demolished the best part of my argument and exposed myself as the fickle female that I really am.  However, I trust I have also revealed a modicum of taste and, I can assure you, the final decision would still be mine.  If I happened not to be in the mood then even JD would get the elbow in the ribs.

2. What's in a Name?

Well it's obvious isn't it?  The minute your hair turns grey your brains drop out. NOOOOOOO! They don't, or we'd all be wading about amongst the little grey cells, so where did this popularly held myth come from?  It has to be out there, or why else would people, who know nothing whatever about you, reckon they're going to go with the assumption that you must be as thick as pig shit, soley because you happen to have been around for a while. Now don't get me wrong. The thing is, I really don't mind being old.  In fact I love it. It has many compensations, advantages even. There'll be more on that at a later date, and I'm actually very grateful to have achieved the age of the Bus Pass.  One of my very dearest, closest friends died in her thirties. She would have loved to have survived long enough to see her children through to adulthood, to have seen them independent.  My dad and brother also died too young.  I really, really know that I am one of the lucky ones. BUT that doesn't mean I don't have to mind when I'm treated as if I'm one bra short of a matching set...which I always wear, by the way.  I so do. I mind a hell of a lot. And what's the solution?  To walk round with a sign strung about my neck declaring that I am a sentient being, that I have two reasonably good grade degrees, that I've held down some demanding jobs, that I've probably read more books than the average, that I've raised a family and can attend to my own hygiene needs! What?!
Obviously, that idea's not feasible, but there has to be some way of conveying all of the above to the general populace. There are, afterall, an awful lot of us out there.  I think we have to start with the, 'funny voice we only use when addressing the old,' problem. I'm sorry to hark back to the failings of financial organisations here (though not that sorry because, as we all know, they are in fact the work of Beelzebub) but I recently had a classic example of this in the queue at my Bank.  There was a man in front of me, probably in his mid-thirties. When he got to the counter he handed over his documents and the bank clerk, having greeted him with a respectful, 'Good morning', brought up his details on her computer and from then on referred to him by his name, Mr. Cunningham.  When the business was concluded she wished him 'Goodbye.' All well and good. I then moved into his place. I had a few transactions to arrange so I'd, helpfully, written out a list of the amounts involved. As I began to pass the slip of paper across to her the clerk looked at me and said, 'What have we got here then, Lovely?'  Except she actually said 'Luv-leeeeeee,' like that, in a singsong way, as one addressing a small child or those of limited intellectual resources, i.e. the stupid. See what I mean? Her entire demeanour was that of an indulgent adult about to try and decipher the art work of a three year old. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she wouldn't have called the previous guy, 'Luv-leeeeeee.' It would never have crossed her mind.  But I was clearly feeble so needed special language.  Really annoying, patrionising, insultingly childish language, specially designed for trying to communicate with that strange species of people who have passed their 60th birthday. Why, for fuck's sake, WHY?  I was livid.  I know she meant well, I know she had no concept of the fact that when older people are talked to in this way something inside them shrivels to dust. But it's demeaning, and it's bloody infuriating.  I neither need nor want to be grovelled to, I don't want to be called Madam or any of that outmoded crap, but my name would be nice. You know, like a proper person.
Anyway, I decided I could either tolerate it or I could risk being labelled a total bitch and do something about it.  I chose the latter.  I spoke in modulated tones, and I did smile as I said, 'I'd really prefer to be addressed by my name.' I didn't think it was unreasonable, afterall the previous customer got his. She looked completely blank. She probably didn't even remember what she had called me, it was an automatic response to what she saw in front of her.  The rest of the transaction was conducted in a huffy silence, the huffiness being hers, not mine. But it was fairly obvious she hadn't got the message so, when the business was concluded, I tried to reinforce it with a parting, 'Thank you Sweeee-teeeeeeeee.' Then I stomped out, resigned to the fact that I would, most likely, be described, in the staff room, during the coffee break, as some horrible old nutter this clerk had had to deal with that morning.  Maybe I'd damaged my cause rather than benefited it.  But I like to think there's just a tiny chance that when the next older person pops up in front of that girl she might, just might, bite back the 'Luv-leeeeee' and treat them with the same respect as any other customer.  I can but hope.

1. A Bit of Business

 I was seething. It was a quiet, decorous seethe, in keeping with my surroundings, but I seethed, nonetheless. Opposite me, sitting in an identical, putty coloured bucket chair to my own, was the young woman who had triggered the seething situation. She didn't know it, but she had. She still smiled her condescending little smile, blonde head tipped slightly to one side as she regarded me serenely, awaiting an answer to her recently uttered question, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil she had created. I was not meeting the girl's gaze, resting my eyes instead on the pale, water colour print on the opposite wall. It was a bland, rural landscape of the kind so often seen on the walls of banks, building societies and business offices everywhere. It was dull, uninspiring, no more than wallpaper. I hated it, it was such a dreadful waste of space. I imagined a warehouse full of the awful things, being sent out in batches to every office in the land, in response to requests for 'something to put on the walls.' Not chosen, not examined and assessed for artistic merit, not selected for their beauty, the vibrant colours or exciting subject matter but bought, as if by the yard, just to fill a space, not to excite or even to please. Just to be there. It wasn't helping, it only added to my reasons for taking against the place.

I transferred my attention to the toe of my Red or Dead boot, which I was waggling up and down, a sure sign of tension. Then I turned my attention back to the girl.

 

I had pushed open the door of the building society and stepped into its' blue and beige interior about fifteen minutes earlier, bent on gathering some information on opening an account. I had read, in the Financial Section of the Guardian that, the current climate being what it was, spreading ones savings widely was a sensible move, it being unwise to have all your eggs in one basket if the handle broke. And so, in the hope of protecting the the pitiful bit of money I had worked so hard for and saved so assiduously, I had decided to put this advice into action, and that was why I now sat across the desk from this girl whom, I hoped, was qualified to advise me on the type of accounts available, despite the fact that she only looked about fourteen.

It had all started well enough. The girl had introduced herself as Laura and had offered tea or coffee, both of which had been declined, with a cheery quip from myself about preferring a gin a tonic, and the blonde child (who clearly didn't get the joke) had then asked me all the relevant questions, listening attentively to my replies before suggesting some options. Everything was going well. I am, by nature, a reasonably sunny, friendly woman, given to smiling a lot and ready to like people, so the atmosphere in Laura's little office had been relaxed, thus far but, not being a passive person, and having made sure I was equipped to debate my choices, I asked questions, weighed pros and cons and gave the information presented my full consideration.

As it happens I had other accounts, in other places and made mental comparisons as Laura talked about interest rates and ease of access. Then, having delivered her well rehearsed spiel on each of the plans that she considered suitable, the girl asked, pleasantly enough, 'So, what do you think. Any of those appeal to you?' Then she sat back, content in a job well done, awaiting my decision. But I had noticed what seemed to be an omission in the selection put forward for my deliberation. Perhaps sweet little Laura had just overlooked it, or maybe there was something in its' detail that did not fit with my particular criteria. I decided to ask.

'I'm just wondering Laura,' I said, and I smiled. As I say, I am a nice person and I didn't want this child to think there was any criticism in my enquiry, 'I was just wondering if I might not get a higher rate of interest with an online account?'

The answer was not immediate. Laura drew a short breath, pursed her lips, shifted in her seat, placed her hands together on her lap and looked to the ceiling, then at the floor as if searching for the answer to this ostensibly simple question. Then, having apparently found it, she leaned towards me, an expression of concern in her lovely eyes and her eyebrows raised a little behind the trendy glasses, and she said it. She said these words, 'Do you think you'd be entirely comfortable with that?' And my friendliness turned to frost.
 

'Comfortable'. A simple enough word with nothing obviously controversial about it. Quite a nice word, really, often used in conjunction with things like slippers, armchairs and trousers with elasticated waists which, incidentally, I trust I am never likely to be found dead in. 'Comfortable'. She new exactly why that particular word had been chosen. She fully understood the implications that lurked behind its innocent façade. And it rendered me furious. Laura had looked at me and, despite my quite funky hair cut and well fitted  designer label jacket, all she had seen was a woman of a certain age. An old woman. A woman with wrinkles. A woman who could not possibly be 'comfortable' with the intricacies of modern technology, which was why she had not seen fit to even mention such a preposterous notion as an account that involved computer skills.

The innocently enquiring smile did not waver on her pretty face and I had to subdue a terrible urge to punch it. But I did not. Instead, after a few moments of contemplation, I looked calmly into Laura's innocent blue eyes and replied, quietly and evenly, 'I think I'd be perfectly....' I paused, preparing myself to deliver the word, 'comfortable', and then I said it, in a carefully weighted way, as if using it for the very first time, '..comfortable with an online account seeing as most of my financial arrangements are already in web accounts and, indeed..,' here I gave a small 'would you believe it?' kind of a laugh, 'most of my life seems so be conducted online. Isn't everybody's these days?' I  saw the blink of surprise in those great big baby blues, and it pleased me, a bit.
 

'Yes, well, of course, we do have a Web Account and it does offer a slightly better interest rate than the ones I've mentioned so far,' countered Laura, speaking so quickly now that she almost tripped over her words, whilst swivelling back to her computer screen, scrabbling to regain the upper-hand in knowledge of such matters, but she knew what had just happened. Oh yes, she knew. Somehow, ever so gently, she had been reprimanded. She had been found wanting. She had made a mistake. She straightened her back, adopted a serious, professional expression and gave me all the relevant, and previously witheld, details. I kept my icy gaze upon her throughout, but Laura did not make eye contact.
 

When she had finished her attempt at recovery I didn't speak. I let the silence stand, allowing it to lengthen to just beyond the point of 'comfortable' before picking up my bag (Orla Kiely) and saying, 'Thank you Laura. I'll think about every everything', and here I paused to put on my gloves, slowly, carefully easing the thin red leather over each finger, ' absolutely EVERYTHING, you've said.' Now I gave her my most beaming smile and continued. 'But I really have to dash now. My lover arrives at three. I found him on the Internet.' Then I was up and out of the door like a greyhound out of the trap, before the poor, startled girl could draw breath. I would not be going back, they would not be getting my business. I was fed up with it. Really, really, very fed up.

And no, I was not actually dashing off to a passionate, sexual encounter but I very well might have been. There was no reason why I shouldn't have been conducting a torrid affair, apart from the fact that I am already very happily married, but a point had needed to be made. You see, it wasn't the first time I'd encountered ageism. Not by a long chalk. It'd been creeping in on me for a while, but now it seemed to have become a regular occurrence, and I was sick of it. I AM sick of it, and it's time to fight back!