I know it might be getting boring. All this old stuff. You think it’s boring? Try living it my friend. I’m obsessed and I’m the type of person to get on with it. Whatever ‘it’ is. The options decline daily. For a start, I’m writing shorter sentences owing to the fact that I can’t remember what it was I’d intended to say.
And then there’s the mirror. That would be the mirror that magnifies one’s face by 1000%. This is a necessity in order that all the cracks can be suitably filled by some ridiculously priced golden glow make-up otherwise known as Pensioners’ Polyfilla. And which precipitates Daily Depression. There’s been some good news though this week on the aging front.
Loyal daughter number one is currently housing her missing father to whom I was, back in the mists of time, once married. Missing father, of a similar age to your author, hasn’t been seen for some years. Which is why we refer to him as ‘missing father’. Ever the optimist, he’s experienced a number of subsequent wives over time. All have failed his expectations. I question her with some rigour:
Why was he on the pavement when you found him?
He’d fallen over and couldn’t get up
Why couldn’t he get up?
He’s proper old, mum. He’s not like you.
And in the middle of my horrid and unnecessary impersonation of the Spanish Inquisition, I suddenly hear what she’s just said. And I’m aware that it’s a parental duty to speak in short sentences; to not mention hospital appointments; and to infer that one’s own aged parents might be of more concern to one’s children. It’s not acceptable to be decrepit.
Yesterday, I went to have my excess facial hair seen to by the lovely ladies from Pakistan who reside in the Dolphin Centre. Lets be fair: I wouldn’t know I had excess facial hair if it wasn’t for the bloody magnifying mirror. But, there, euphemistically, it is: top lip please. So, that would be moustache then. Salvador who? Afterwards, I go to M & S. Back in the day, we’d call it Marks. That would be our feeble attempt at modernising. No more Spencer for us.
M & S is an old woman’s shop. I peek in from time to time because I like their Indigo range. It’s vaguely hippie-like. So, there I was, browsing the modern-day, latter-day clothing, when I realised, along with all the other aged flower power bods, I was almost dancing between the racks of kaftans. M & S were playing music. And not just any music. It was Roy Orbison. Good job daughter number two wasn’t there. I’m already in disgrace for setting off the alarms at the Grayson Perry exhibition last week at the National Portrait Gallery. Could be worse: could have a parent laying in a heap on a pavement.
All the oldies in the queue were singing along with Roy. Someone who’d lived long enough to reach the till explained to the whipper-snapper employed to take his money who the genius that was Roy Orbison was. She was not just any till person: she was M & S trained. Thank-you, she replied for this gratefully received information. That explains a lot.