The risk calculator declared my Ubble age to be 53, and my risk of dying in the next five years to be 1.8%. “This means that, out of 100 women aged 60 years with similar answers, 98 will survive and 2 will die over the next 5 years,” it kindly explained, for those who can’t do the maths. Since I was born in 1954, this seemed reasonably encouraging.
I answered the questions honestly, but wondered how to convey that although I am generally insufferably cheerful, depression runs through my father’s side of the family like Blackpool through a stick of rock. It didn’t want to know about glasses of sauvignon blanc. It did want to know if I had a disabled parking badge, but not about the Kennedy inheritance of woefully creaky knees. I wondered whether it would consider my brother’s mother-in-law, whom I truly loved and who died a few weeks ago, as the “death of a close relative”.
Since it never asked anything about cars, singular or plural, I logged back in as my mythical twin brother. This time the first question was “how many cars or vans are owned or available for use by you or members of your household?” I gave him two – and promptly had to invent a family for him, since the next question was about the number in his household, including absent students – women are merely asked how many children they have.
I gave him a wife, son and resident mother-in-law, and made him an occasional smoker, with a previous heavy habit, and a doctor slightly concerned about his blood pressure. Disappointingly, perhaps because of his brisk gait – unlike my steady one – and no to diabetes, cancer, or bereavement, he came out only slightly worse than me, with an Ubble age of 55 years and a 3.3% risk of dying. Good thing I didn’t mention the opium den and the hang glider.
