(Quick interpolation to "Logical" by Supertramp) -
When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful
A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily
Oh joyfully, playfully watching me...
Now according to the song, we then were sent to school and taught how to be logical and sensible, cynical and presentable. Possibly becoming radical (always on the cards) or liberal (unlikely), with a sticky end as a vegetable. (I'd really prefer to morph into the slender shape of a carrot rather than a cuddly capsicum.)
What the song doesn't mention is the myriad of sometimes pleasant, occasionally irksome and often hilarious results of aging that I am experiencing. These strange but true details just don't seem to get enough of a guernsey and should be required information for all of us as we approach fifty.
Believe me, that's when the sticky brown stuff really hits the fan.
For example, what about staying up to be productive during the evenings. After dinner used to be when I was often at my wittiest and most eloquent. I would park in front of the laptop and pound out a tome, whilst keeping my left ear and left eye pointed towards the telly so I could multitask.
Or walking the dogs after I've been in the Gallery all day. Or having the kitchen spick and span before collapsing into bed. Hanging a load of washing on the line. Catching up on any watering not completed in the morning rush. Some nights, organising din-dins is a bloody huge effort and then I'm cactus afterwards. When I actually ask for help in evening meal preparations, Michael understands that I have Hit the Wall and usually springs into action. The spectre of Not Eating is always enough to spur him rapidly off the lounge.
Falling asleep in front of the telly is another irritant. Particularly when watching "Endeavour" on Fridays. I have just about given up on "Project Blue Book" as I am inevitably tucked up in bed by the opening credits. Even the new format "Q+A", featuring the delicious Hamish Macdonald, whom I am thoroughly enjoying, is a bit of a stretch to remain conscious.
I was never going to become my Mother, in any way, shape or form. Pleasingly, I actually adore Immy, our grandbaby, who is three months old today. Mum was never particularly enamoured of grandchildren or children or most people, come to think of it. However, the snoring in front of the TV, the discussion of ailments and medical appointments, visits to the dentist and podiatrist, the inability to hold a decent conversation after nine o'clock at night are all exceedingly tiresome and Just Like Mum!
These occurrences call for drastic measures to circumvent the effects of turning into Old Farts. As a result, social occasions start earlier and finish earlier. Last night, we had a lively impromptu get-together at Station House of ourselves, Celeste, Romola, Jan and Greg. We were all in hysterics concerning Celeste's inability to access her MyGov account. She has thirty-seven passwords, none of which work and the boffins in the Department of Human Services haven't had any success in opening her account either. My latest quibble with our financial institution is failing to take a direct debit at the required time, in spite of funds actually available and daring to post a "failure" on my online banking page. AJ from CUA was supposed to get back to me today. He hasn't.
In our younger days, these hijinks would have been treated with far more seriousness. Now, all of us approaching sixty, we can roar with laughter at the insanity of the online systems that are all supposed to be efficient and time-saving.
So, drinks were enjoyed, nibbles consumed and we were all done and dusted by seven o'clock. Great night.
Late afternoons in the Gallery often provide the chance to Open the Bar and indulge in a snort or two with good friends. Our Sundowners kick off at five-thirty as I am always ready to retire by eleven, at the latest. I still have no idea how Michael stays upright with Lawrence until two in the morning. However, he is often wrecked for several days post Sundowner and I am usually not very sympathetic.
I never pass up the opportunity to engage in conversation with anybody. One never knows; we may just become bosom buddies. I also never pass up the opportunity to hang up on any person I can't understand on the phone. I do hope that I don't sound potentially racist but my ability to decipher weird accents is just beyond me. As a result, I don't engage with many call centres at all.
Our TV aerial in Digger the caravan is still notoriously unreliable, but I am actually looking forward to less dependence on the Idiot Box when we go away. The radio will become our friend (just like the Olden Days), however, I will have to make sure Michael is in the vicinity of a working telly to watch the footy on the weekends.
Oh, my giddy aunt, I'll have time for reading and writing!
In the meantime, I have decided upon some ideals for growing older - disgracefully or otherwise -
- never waste time
- be interested in others (until they bore you to tears)
- engage in new activities
- adopt a dog (or cat if you must)
- have a comfortable bed, sofa or armchair
- cherish those you love
- do not mince words (particularly when talking to banks, welfare agencies, insurance companies or telecommunication outlets)
- use profanities if desired
- expand your vocabulary
- remember the simple pleasures.
Thank you for your attention. Now we are off to the pub for dinner.
Scenes from Saturday's Sundowner. We may be getting on, but we still know how to party!
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