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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