Monday, May 24, 2004
Fade away
Ageing is an interesting and disconcerting thing. I have always maintained that it’s the mileage that counts, but even that fudge doesn’t account for the differences in the wear and tear some people show. My rugby-battered knees make pretty good barometers, and make some interesting noises when I’m climbing stairs, but as far as my head is concerned, I’m still 21. That’s as far as the hair on my head is concerned, anyway. I discovered my first long, grey, Dennis Healey-style eyebrow the other day. It’s vaguely reassuring to have some sign of ageing after an adulthood spent denying my apparent youth.
It seems to run in the family, although whether it is growing old slowly, or just refusing to grow up too fast is up for debate. My father would pass for a good ten years younger than his passport shows, and my grandfather is not showing any signs of slowing down, still mowing his own lawn and seeing a younger woman, and heading for 30 years post retirement. Having survived his first wife, then divorced the second, his current, delightful, companion is a lady who is younger than his younger child, and much younger than my Dad. She’s quite a handful even though she too is getting on a bit. My brother nearly sprayed his mouthful over assembled party frocks at my wedding when she asked him, in her gentle Irish accent: “are you familiar with the word ‘gobshite’?” Not what one expects from a retired teacher.
Listening to: Bob. To dance beneath the diamond sky...
It seems to run in the family, although whether it is growing old slowly, or just refusing to grow up too fast is up for debate. My father would pass for a good ten years younger than his passport shows, and my grandfather is not showing any signs of slowing down, still mowing his own lawn and seeing a younger woman, and heading for 30 years post retirement. Having survived his first wife, then divorced the second, his current, delightful, companion is a lady who is younger than his younger child, and much younger than my Dad. She’s quite a handful even though she too is getting on a bit. My brother nearly sprayed his mouthful over assembled party frocks at my wedding when she asked him, in her gentle Irish accent: “are you familiar with the word ‘gobshite’?” Not what one expects from a retired teacher.
Listening to: Bob. To dance beneath the diamond sky...
