Getting Old....

“Genteel” is a word not much used nowadays. "Growing old gracefully", it usually meant.

It typically describes the elderly, living out their twilight years, sitting quietly at home sipping tea from bone china cups and saucers and munching on small sandwiches and cream cakes and biscuits. The ladies were usually portrayed wearing flower patterned pinafore dresses under soft wool cardigans, with perhaps an apron over that, and slippers. In summer the scene would shift to a sunlit flowery garden, and wide brimmed straw hats would make an appearance. The gentlemen, meanwhile, invariably wore grey flannel trousers neatly pressed and with turn-ups, perhaps with braces and always a shiny black leather belt for support, a tawny checked shirt with a green or brown knitted tie, topped by a grey v-necked pullover. In summer, this might be replaced by a sleeveless grey v-necked pullover and a trilby or cloth cap (dark grey or dark green gingham check and bought from Barbour of course). Both wore slippers: the ladies’ typically were pastel coloured with a kind of off-white sheepskin ruff around the ankle, while the gentlemen's tended to light brown, probably with a thin dark brown check pattern, and fur lined. Outside in summer, the slippers might be replaced by a pair of sensible and highly polished black leather shoes (or perhaps soft brown leather loafers with thin crepe soles).

The ladies would be reading magazines like Woman, or Women's Own, Country Life or The Lady. The men were usually labouring away at The Times crossword puzzle, or harrumphing over the Reader's Letters page. In the background a radio would be playing softly, the BBC Home Service (classical music and current affairs programming) or the BBC Light Programme (popular music). In the summer, live commentary from the Test cricket or Wimbledon tennis would also feature. Conversation might be desultory, often angry or critical, and driven by the content of the press and radio programming.

This is all 1960s and ‘70s stereotyping of course, and anyone familiar with latter day tv sitcoms like One Foot In The Grave or Terry and June will recognise them immediately. I remember both, vividly, and also my nan – who fitted the genteel definition to a T, bless her. My mum had her moments too, but was generally less genteel in her old age. Dad missed out on that, dying at the young age of 56, but the picture painted here fitted him well enough anyway, with the exceptions of the newspaper (he always read either the Daily Sketch or, after its demise, the Daily Mirror – as befitted the proud working class gardener he was) and the packet of cigarettes, Swan Vestas matches and ash-tray on the table next to him.

Of course, not everyone fitted the ideal. Many people were a lot louder and brasher in their retirement, regular visitors to working men’s clubs and local pubs at any time of day or night, especially in bigger towns and cities, for a game of darts or bar-billiards, or a good old political/sport/religious row (delete as required). But still, they were content to do not so much, after a hard working of life of 50-odd years, and able to live off their pensions.

Things have changed.

For a start, pensions have been considerably devalued in the intervening years. Sure, they've gone up, but still not in step with price increases. Living on a pension alone is incredibly difficult now, especially for those who still have some household debt like mortgages and loans and not much in the way of savings. I know this because although I am pretty much debt free and live in a country where goods, food and services are a lot cheaper, my pensions from 50 years' hard work barely cover what I need - and that's with a reasonably favourable exchange rate. This time next year it may well be more difficult, given the Brexit Shit Show is now running hell for leather towards a No Deal with all the devastating effects that will likely mean to Britain's economy and currency. The theft of taxing my income from what are essentially a lifetime's savings accrued through income tax, national insurance contributions and private plans (meaning I'm being taxed twice on the same money!) makes no sense to me. Beyond the old chestnut of "well, that's what the government wants/law says" - which is all the explanation any financial advisor or accountant has ever been prepared or able to give me - means nothing.

Second, people live longer and are healthy longer. This of course means we are expected to work longer with talk of a retirement age of 70 increasing. Physically - fine: I'm sure most people will be fit enough to work another few years, but would most of them really WANT to? I know I had had enough at 65 but did another year anyway. By the time I approached 66 it just seemed enough was enough - it was increasingly hard to raise any enthusiasm and there were other things I wanted to do with my life. Another 4 years' mandatory graft would have driven me nuts (or nuttier, anyway) - not because I am neither strong nor healthy enough to do it but simply because it no longer floats the boat.

But living longer and being healthier, and crucially stronger and fitter, means that people of 60 or so (when traditionally gentility set in) don't actually WANT to vegetate in front of the radio and munch cucumber sandwiches. We still want to be doing things. So we do.

The number of seniors (a much nicer term than old age pensioners, in my view) taking foreign holidays, camping, hiking, and back packing rather than on Saga all-inclusive coach trips or package holidays, has never been higher, despite the issues we all suffer in terms of pension income described above. The number of grey haired and bearded bikers roaring around on motor bikes is rising. Ditto those in renovated sports cars - or indeed any car. Not all of us are dragging caravans around behind the car - camper vans, self contained and easier to manoeuvre and park are increasing in popularity too and give the freedom to travel on our terms. I quite fancy one myself, actually. And there are tents, lighter and easier to carry and erect than ever before. In a nutshell, we are more adventurous these days.

We want to remain active as well, and this doesn't mean hanging around the local crown green bowling club dressed in immaculate whites. It means getting out and doing things. My 72 year old widowed mother-in-law has been going to university here for a couple of years now, and as well as meeting a whole raft of new friends she gets to go to the opera, to concerts and on various trips to resorts here and overseas with them. I have no idea what course she's taking, but she's enjoying herself for sure. Back in England an old friend and work colleague started a University course (a BA, I think) in European History at London University when he turned 70, and is loving it. Another old friend has recently been elected to represent the Conservative Party on his local council back in the UK at 66. Funds permitting, I would happily enrol in a degree at the Open University – but unfortunately funds do not permit.

Of course, in some areas people quite happily work well beyond pensionable age - the arts being particularly fertile ground. Just because you're over 65 doesn't mean your brain switches off. Writers still write (or, like me, start writing more), painters paint, and musicians - well, what can I say? They go on forever. Bruce Springsteen (age 69) has just released a new and critically acclaimed album, Phil Collins (68) despite arthritis, is touring again - the wonderfully named Not Dead Yet Tour - selling out stadia worldwide (Warsaw last week: some friends went and said it was great). Rod Stewart (74) and Chris de Burgh (70) are playing over here later this year and sold out already. As for the Stones, all of them well over 70, they have just paused their latest World Tour to allow Mick Jagger (75) to have his heart valves replaced. He's now back in the gym and the band back in the rehearsal room with the No Filter Tour set to continue. More power to their elbows, says I - and to their music, too. Heroes all.

And what of myself?

Well, I’ve done the suits, ties and shiny shoes bit, putting on a (perhaps false) impression in the office. I’ve served my time commuting in a variety of places, some easy and some appalling, but most hot and sweaty whatever the climate. I’ve had my fill of early morning and late night flights to and from places I don’t want to be in but have had to go to to satisfy someone else’s demands. Ditto the uncomfortable hotel beds with too soft pillows wrecking my neck and my back.

My suits and shirts and ties are now confined to my wardrobe, gathering dust. At some point I must have a sort out and donate a lot of them to charities – I’m not going to need all of them, just the better ones at Easter, Christmas and, perhaps, family events like weddings and Christenings, First Communions and, at some point, funerals.

Now, all I need are jeans, tee-shirts, sweaters and trainers, plus a parka, waterproof jacket and ski-jacket for winter. In summer substitute shorts and sandals. Some chinos and casual shirts for evenings out. I have a big selection of baseball caps, at least one from everywhere my travels have taken me (apart from Chennai), and two or three cloth caps like dad’s. Plenty to be going on with.

Physically, I’m ok, carrying a bit of weight, but walk and bike a lot to keep it manageable. What’s left of my hair is white, which matches the goatee. I don’t shave every day but trim the goat and shave my head every couple of weeks, or when my wife and daughter tell me to. Unlike a good many seniors these days, I have no body piercings or ear-rings – I don’t understand them. I have a set of tattoos, a 60^th birthday gift from my wife. On one upper arm are my birth sign and those of my eldest sons, and on the other the Chinese horoscope signs for me, my wife and youngest kids. They look cool, now they’ve faded and weathered in a bit, especially when I’ve been out in the sun and worked up a bit of a tan.

Jewellery? My wedding ring on one hand and on the other the signet ring my dad gave me on my 18^th birthday, the year before he passed. I have a silver chain loaded with a small St. Christopher medallion from a market stall outside the Vatican, a tab I bought in Egypt that holds my name in hieroglyphics (including a perfect Lost in Translation spelling mistake), and a very small badge from a leather bracelet, long since rotted away, that bears a likeness of a pre-historic cave painting and is the symbol of the Almeria province in southern Spain, where it was found. Finally, bought at a market stall in small Polish seaside village, a string bracelet carrying seven Ban The Bomb symbols in mock ivory.

In short, if someone described me as “an ageing hippy”, I would be happy with that.

It seems to me that the great thing about growing old(er) in mind and body is that you lose your inhibitions along with the need to keep up appearances (another BBC sitcom from way back when that nicely caricatured gentility). It's certainly the case with me.

I've always had a rebellious streak, and I find it coming out more and more the older I get. I take, and am happy to communicate, strong views on a number of things these days, whether it be politics generally (and Brexit, Trump and populism more specifically), climate change and the environment, history, the future and the role of tech....any number of things. My views are not always in sync with either the popular view or those of whoever I'm talking too, and I admit to stretching them a bit to enliven the debate. But they are honestly held, and while I respect other people's views I reserve the right to strongly disagree with them, whether they like it or not. My late brother-in-law was similar, and I understand better now how and why, I think.

I have no problem wandering around wearing not very much. I'm not embarrassed about the extra weight I'm carrying, nor the bald head, nor any other physical imperfection, real or imagined. I am what I am, and my body is what it is – I can't really change any of it so I'm happy in my own skin. Whether that is an immature position to take or adult, brave or stupid, I neither know nor care.

The fact is I'm growing old Being able to write a piece like this helps me accept and explain the fact. And I intend to make that process last as long as possible - a telegram for the King (or an e-mail or whatever) on my 100th birthday would be good..  

The aim is to do it (dis)gracefully and enjoy the ride.