Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Old father time.......

I’m sorry, I can’t seem to help myself, I’m not proud of it, and I probably should be ashamed, but there is no denying it…….Old people get on my fucking tits!
Sigh…….Don’t get me wrong, deep down I do have the utmost respect for them. The unbelievable hardships they endured during two world wars, are completely beyond my comprehension, and should never be forgotten. My life today compared to theirs, can only be described as a Utopian paradise, but, let’s be honest, they are bloody annoying aren’t they?

Why don’t they listen? And no it’s not just because they are possibly hard of hearing, it’s because they are so busy jabbering on, that they don’t bother to listen. You know how it is, we have all been there. You ask them a question, and before you have finished asking it, they are already saying "eh?" so you start asking it again, at which point they butt in and start answering you. Proving that they did hear you the first time, they have just got into the habit of thinking that they haven’t heard you.

At what point during our descent into old age, do we forget how to drive a car? If by some miracle, or a rapid advance in medical science I reach, let’s say eighty, will I have totally forgotten what the pedals and big wheelie thing In front of me are for? When we get older, does our perception of speed increase? It must do, I suppose this would explain why little old men in hats seem to be under the impression that going over thirty-five mph will cause them to black out or spontaneously combust.

The number of times I have been driving along, and to my astonishment, have seen what appears to be nothing more than a Trilby driving a 1979 Morris Mariner towards me! Is that really safe? Should that really be allowed? Surely if you are looking through the steering wheel and not over it, a disaster is only just around the corner. But they don’t crash do they, no everyone else is doing that around them. There they are dribbling along, while in their wake is an ever growing line of steaming, disfigured metal, as people have taken drastic action to avoid their decrepit incompetence.

What age will I be, when I decide that it’s ok to just stop without giving any kind of warning or notice? I was watching some old biddy the other day. Wandering along at seventeen mph, and without any concept at all that there might be other poor bastards on the public highway, just stopped! The poor sod behind her stood on the brake pedal with both feet, smoke billowing from his newly flat spotted tyres. Still she appeared to have no idea at all that she had nearly been rear ended.

After the bloke had sat there for a couple of minutes picking his teeth out of the leatherette finish of his dashboard, flashing his lights, bibbing the horn, waving, shouting, etc. he attempted to drive around her, at which point she decided, without making use of the mirrors, to slowly pull away. If I had had a fucking bazooka to hand, she would have been toast!

At what point do we decide that we are no longer going to try and use modern technology? My God I get fed up with old cronies whittling on about how they can’t use "Those new fangled" things like a computer or a mobile phone. At what point does our brain seem to stop being able to process the information needed to operate what is essentially simple pieces of equipment. To be honest, I have got to be careful here. I hope Miss Marple isn’t reading this, or she will be crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows. The number of times she has witnessed me dribbling and stumbling about whilst trying to use one of those "Do it yourself checkouts" at the Co-op.

I always feel sorry for the poor girl who has to come to the rescue of poor souls like me, when we have made the red light flash for the umpteenth time. It is quite embarrassing when I’m told that I have scanned the same tin of beans seventy-four times! Or I have collapsed in to a quivering wreck, because the machine has asked me to input the code for fresh produce or whatever.

Don’t remind me of that bloody thing in the bank either, you know, where you can deposit money into a machine instead of giving it to someone at the counter. That is like a white knuckle ride for me, who needs Alton towers!

You see, age is a very peculiar thing to me. I have great trouble getting my head around it. When I was a child of say eight, my grandfathers would have probably been in their fifties. Not old at all, especially by today’s standards, but at the age of eight, they were ancient. They looked old, they seemed old, to my little mind, they were old. Now, my Father is approaching sixty-five, and apart from being maybe a little rounder, and a little more grey, he doesn’t seem any older or different to me, than say twenty or thirty years ago. It seems that if you get older with someone, you don’t seem to notice their ageing, but if you have only known someone as being "old" you just seem to see them as……. well,"old." That probably doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I hope you catch my drift.

For example, I have only known Miss Marple’s Grandmothers as elderly ladies. I can in no way imagine them as young, virile, bouncy girls. With pert bosoms, lily white taught skin and a spring in their step. I know they were, but the brain seems to refuse to comprehend it.

It’s very much like I see myself I suppose. There is no way in the bloody world that I see myself as forty-two. It’s impossible, I can’t be. How did that happen? Ok, when I get out of bed these days the first few steps are like walking on a bed of nails because of the pins and needles, and my knee keeps giving way. There is the bad back, dodgy hearing, aching teeth, constantly painful elbow, balding head and creaking limbs, but mentally I don’t feel any different to when I was twenty-five. I think our brains stop getting older by the age of about twenty-five, but the bloody body keeps going. Having said that, there does seem to be some kind of cut off point. It’s like our brains stay twenty-five up until about the age of seventy-two, then the switch flicks over to "Old git mode." You suddenly can’t drive, use a mobile phone, hear people, stop talking about how things were better in "Your day" listen to what people are telling you, and on and on and on.

I’m not looking forward to the day that I think it is essential to wear a belt and braces. Do you get a letter from some governmental department, or the Queen, telling you that today is the day to start wearing your waistband under you armpits. Is smelling musty a gradual process or, does it happen over night? What age do you have to be, before you no longer worry about looking a complete twat on the dance floor?

Again I have to be careful here. Do you know, it’s been weeks since I wore a pair of jeans! Choosing instead to wear some nice comfy slacks! …….shit. (Think I will go out and buy myself a leather jacket and some ripped jeans…….maybe even a bandanna).

I have often seen an elderly couple, and wondered how they see each other. Do they both still see those young, frisky, energetic, slim, taught skinned kids that they used to be? Or do they see old people? I have been with the lovely Miss Marple for thirteen years now, but I don’t see her as being any older. I suppose I have the advantage that she was very young when we met (Wonder if I am off the register yet? Could do with my computer back as well) and so she hasn’t actually changed much at all. How will I see her when she is seventy? How she will see me doesn’t bare thinking about! She probably won’t be able to see much of me anyway, behind all those tubes and oxygen cylinders etc. Wonder if she will be able cope? Being married to Davros!

How does an old person see themselves? Does our elderly neighbour, who, without wishing to be unpleasant, has a face like a road map of inner London, see himself like he used to be, or as an old man?
I seem to have softened my stance somewhat. Perhaps it’s because I know that I am racing ever faster to the land of 'elderly'.

When I am prime minister, I will make it compulsory to have some kind of assessment at the age of seventy-two. On your seventy second birthday, a black van will arrive at your house in the early hours of the morning (Don’t worry, you will be up, old people always are!) and you will be whisked off to a secret government facility, where you will go through a vigorous assessment procedure. For a week you will be tested to see if you can drive, operate contemporary equipment, cope without multiple trouser fastenings, listen, Urinate and defecate un-aided. Not whitter on and on, eat quietly, drink without the aid of a straw and generally function without slowing people up, getting in the way, and being a bloody nuisance!
If they fail the test, It will be a bit like ‘Logan’s run’ They will be told they are off to some kind of sanctuary, in reality, through the door, twenty foot drop straight in to the furnace!


I feel a bit bad now. You see, i wrote this round about the time of Remembrance day. Seeing all those old soldiers etc has reminded me of the incredible sacrifices people of that generation made. Don't be too hard on me, it's all (mostly!) just a bit of fun.......They can be fucking irritating though can't they?

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About Me

Smileville, Smileshire, United Kingdom
Don't let the bastards grind you down! peace and love x