ON AGE, WORDS, AND MEMORIES

I think that of all the words used to describe and to stereotype the older among us 'elderly' is the worst. It sounds far more derogatory than 'old'. To me it smacks of Zimmer frames and being ensconced with fellow aged ones in a room with the TV on ITV all day with adverts for stair - lifts and incontinence pads playing with ones mind. The word 'ancient' has style and grace and is altogether more classy. So I use that for my own self description. But really, while I am not in denial of my age, indeed I have begun to boast about it (a revolting habit and one that I swore I would never indulge in) I am definitely in denial of the limitations that other people put upon my age.

What does it MEAN when you say I don't look my age? What does my age look like? Is there an age gauge? Some stipulated appearance to conform to? Yet another rule for us all? I know many people, younger and older than me and they do not all look the same. And when does elderly begin? We all know where it ends. On the slab! And can you choose? Some people I know have welcomed old age while in their fifties and other who make no concessions to their age when they are ninety five and they rail against physical limitations, so I guess you can choose. In the same way that you are not always entirely responsible for what happens to you but you can choose how to react to it.

When people tell me that I am 'not like my (their) mum' I want to tell them that I never was - I am unique. (In fact we are all unique)
I don't bother to tell them any more, it doesn't go down well. And their words are meant as a compliment but it is stereotyping as much as is the statement that 'all the young drink to excess and are rude.' (discuss!)

The Nepalese woman who braids my eyebrows offers to cook for me and feels that I need somebody to look after me - because I made the fatal mistake of telling her my age - a year older than her own mother. This is a kind gesture but not one that I have any intention of accepting. Other people insist on telling me that I am far better on the computer than are their mum. I should hope I am I have been slogging away at it for years and am still a complete
technophobe. I have an eighty-year-old friend who is a computer whiz and I expect that all levels of competence are represented in my age group. Naturally, somebody who learned computer skills at an early age finds them more accessible. And in my own experience of running creative writing groups there is a serious lack of spelling ability and knowledge of words in people under forty.

I hear programmes on the radio in which people of sixty have decided they are old and if they choose to embrace age with fervour then jolly good luck to them. They look back to the past longingly. As we all do, to our own edited past that is. I sat in the doctor's waiting room a few weeks ago with some old flame, not remotely warm now, who I used to dance slow ones with thirty years ago at The West Indian club and we reminisced about the good old days and it was fun, but we lied, we tailored our tale to fit the policy of the old days, those good old days.

We spoke of a time when the blues parties were peaceful benign affairs and petrol and ganga were cheap. You could wander about on the way home at any hour with no fear of hassle. In fact I have no desire to be up at 4am and wandering. I only did it then because I was too drunk to drive. I also remember some pretty hairy scenes in the local shebeens but like I say; we all edit our pasts and that is healthy.

My brother in law who is a hero of mine mentioned in passing that he went to the public baths in the same road that we had an exhibition and reading last week. It occurs to me that the public baths are now an unknown adventure to most people, as were the wash houses, so I will share my memories: in the fifties many houses, especially the ones in multi occupation had no bathrooms. Some had baths in the kitchen and the covered bath would double as table, imagine the performance of removing everything from the table in a small kitchen to open up the bath. Boil up a copper and decant water into the bath, the family would share the water one after another. A very steamy affair! But not in a good way.

The public baths were mostly part of a pool complex and were called slipper baths. Nobody has ever given me a satisfactory explanation of this name and I should like one. We would go in and get a number and go inside a cubicle to the vast spotless bath, which would be filling with water courtesy of the lady in charge. You would shout out your number to ask for more water 'More hot in number four please!' and we thought it great fun to demand more cold in somebody else's bath so we tried to find out our mates' number and got up to other hijnks like climbing up and peering over the top of the wall, that were looked upon unfavourably. We were pests to this woman who we saw as a granny, probably in her early fifties.

The wash house was a place where local women met, scrubbed their clothes and rubbished one another. We, who lived with black men were singled out for a great deal of nasty banter, they regarded us as sluts. The fact that we appeared, and indeed did, have more parties and actively enjoyed ourselves a lot more loudly than they did was unforgivable. Even the ones among us who had been married for years with a rack of children were thought to be 'no better than we should be'. Which is another strange phrase.

So? How is it to be elderly?
I don't know. I have decided to be ancient and I am having a pretty good life thanks. The future is exciting. And we ancients are as variable as any other group in society and it is possible to choose the warp and weft to create your own old age.
Weave on and enjoy.