Happy Birthday John. You made it.
Another year
has flown by and my 77th birthday signals something I never thought
would happen, that I would progress to such old age. I know I am just a 'spring chicken' in some of your books, where
80 is but a pathway to 90 and 100 for the few.
I
grew up when, in a working class household, reaching 70 was an
achievement, women lived roughly 5 years more. To retire at 65 usually
meant that
5 or so years were available to enjoy in retirement on the state
pension, a pension,
not in any way generous, but marginal and supportive, being frugal one could just get by.
Old men aimlessly walking the street, fag in mouth waiting for opening time, nursing a pint until 3pm when the pub
closed its doors for two hours, until reopening at 5pm.
It
was a lonely life after the camaraderie of work. The wife usually had
her own routine and didn't want her husband getting in the way. The
reality
of living together all those years didn't mean that either party
understood
the other any the better and now, enclosed in the same set of rooms the chance for conflict was high.
The
myriad problems of getting older, finding in these years, a slow
tailing off of ones health and energy, the aches and pains, a little
dizziness
and short of breath made one even more aware that the old physique we
had always
taken for granted, was not as good as it used to be.
We
have just had bonfire night, with Christmas and new year to come, all
signposts heralding time passing. Occasions which in the past spoke of
parties
and gifts, of a child's fantasy towards Father Christmas and an adults expectation of a happy cheerful family event.
Old
age can simply brings a telephone call, or now-a-days, if the "oldie"
can work a computer a connection via the internet to say Hi to a family
living on the other side of the world. Christmas spirit barely leaks under the door, the
odd card and a
television set showing repeats of the "Two Ronnie's" or a traditional
white, middle class American family with presents galore and a table so
full of food one can only wonder what people
on welfare, or worse the homeless, think of it all.
It's strange to reflect that from the moment the young child grasps his mothers hand to the moment he/she is
dropped off at
nursery school, then primary followed by secondary school, perhaps
eventually that special bubble, the 6th form and out into the big world of a job or university, the plan and the path seemed
so assured. As I watch young
men and women striding up the road towards the railway station, already
fixated on their routine of catching the 7.35, their lives a treadmill
of walking,
eventually running trying to keep up with the competition,becoming so immersed in the corporate need, that their life is simply not their own.
The years
pass, a family of ones own comes along and, ill equipped, you make as
good a job of it as you can. So much intellectualised input went astray,
and with it so many good intentions. Love there
was plenty but that mystical concoction of fireside cohesion and bedroom stories, read to an 'appreciative' child were somehow missed.
The years
fly by until all of a sudden there is no competition, no urgency to
catch the 7.35, only the silence of an empty street, the cars and the train catchers long gone as you eat your porridge
and scan the TVs programming guide for another day indoors.
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