At some point in the day I will worry about age, and you may, too. Probably not directly, but in many small ways. It is the way I and plenty of others see things differently from those who are maybe grown up and awake but not worrying.
We will be concerned about getting tired and sleepy before the play we are watching is over. Anxious because we can’t be sure that the people who are arranging the day’s event will remember how often we need the ladies’ room. Of course there are a lot of mature people who are conversant with the internet, and live with mobile phones and such, but there are also plenty who aren’t and don’t; who go on living the best they can, but worrying about it.
And all this is true of the people who aren’t actually needing daily care (those who can sometimes be given treatment that is so inadequate it gets deplored on Radio 4, in File on Four, and in the Daily Mirror). Those of us who are actually more or less able to get through a day without misery, or dreading the next one, even though we are getting on a bit, are probably quite lucky.
These are not good times in which to be old. The young aren’t likely to respect us just for our experience of things they don’t necessarily admire. If we need a bit of help we are likely to be bossed about by someone who doesn’t know more than we do – except in things like computers. We may, it’s true, be treated for illnesses which would have wiped out our forbears, but being looked after by a carer for ages can be a lot less agreeable than simply living with the family.
What do you think? Have your say below
