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!