Some First Impressions

On Being Aged in Hong Kong

Respect for the aged reminds me of Hong Kong where I offered proof of my age for my Octopus pass only to be told that that wouldn't be necessary.  On jokingly saying that I didn't think I looked that old the young lady said that I didn't look old I looked like someone to be respected for their seniority.  I just love the people of Hong Kong! 

On meeting the German Police

The first time we went to Germany (we being my wife and I and our two sons who were then still knee high to a grasshopper) we went by car.  It was getting towards dusk when we arrived on the outskirts of Braunschweig (Hannover) prior to entering the then heavily guarded transit route through the DDR (Deutsche Demokratische Republik) generally called East Germany.  Berlin (our destination) was too far to travel that night and we decided to find a hotel.  Unfortunately we hadn't anticipated that and didn't know our way round once we left the autobahn. So we stopped at a police post.  As we pulled up an immaculately dressed police officer in a 'different' uniform emerged from a police Porche carrying a machine gun in one hand and a brief case in the other and went inside.  Rather apprehensively I followed and was met by a sergeant at the desk.  I told him in my faltering German that we needed a hotel and asked if he spoke any English.  "Nein" came the immediate response "aber ich spreche sehr gut Deutsch.".  And with that he beckoned me to follow and we got a police escort to a nearby hotel where he explained everything, made sure we were settled in and promptly disappeared.

What Age Are You?

I'll put my cards on the table.  I think I am middle-aged.  Of course if you don't know how old I am in years then that won't help you judge the accuracy of my opinion.  Of course you may never have thought about it.  After all, why should you?

What caused that outburst?  An email exchange (you really don't need to know the details!) with a dear friend:

Me: Payment for a (very) misspent youth and younger middle age now that I've reached older middle age.

Dear Friend: We're middle aged?  Who are you kidding?

Me: Haven't they told you yet. The 60s are now the old 50s.

Dear Friend: Nope.  Anyway, 50 is quite old.

WHAT!?

I've sort of thought about this all day and decided to do some research.

Google it and the dictionary definition is: Noun.  The period between early adulthood and old age, usually considered to be from 45 to 65. (So, my dear friend, 50 is still on the young side of middle age).

Apparently the medical definition is between 40 and 60. (So, my dear friend, 50 would be in the middle of middle age).

Frankly Wikipedia wasn't that helpful on the subject.

However Robert L Adams who seems to have cornered middle age has a considered essay on the subject at that link and concludes that middle age is that point in your life when you shift from seeing the future in terms of your potential and begin to see it in terms of your limitations. 

The problem with that definition for me is that I still see my life in terms of  the future whilst being very much aware of my limitations.  So I'm not sure whether I'm middle-aged or not.

What really settles it for me, though, is that I was, according to my Mum, born with my pension book in my hand.  Which I think was a way of saying that I was born old.  Well it took me until about 60 to start getting young and I was just about there at 65.  So I've decided I'm not even middle-aged yet.

As my Mum said it was bad manners to ask a lady her age I'll not pursue the question.  However if anyone wants to offer an opinion on how old they consider themselves to be they are most welcome so to do.

On The Social Importance of Milk Bottles

Adrian went on holiday from Blogland.  It was partly because he was having a good time and partly because in The English Lake District broadband cover is sparse and erratic.  However it is evident that some of his friends were concerned:  probably because he's a mildly eccentric and very likeable chap (not that I'd ever tell him that).

The absence made me think about milk bottles.  Some of my readers may know what they are and remember the days (before refrigerators - which unlike fridges don't have a d) when they were delivered daily to the doorstep.  It's still possible to have milk delivered on Lewis although I suspect it's very rare nowadays.

When you went on holiday one of the first things you did was cancel the milk (and the newspapers).  Obviously you didn't want a load of sour milk to accumulate nor could one generally afford the luxury of waste in those days.

If you didn't cancel the milk and it accumulated the milkman or the postie would be concerned and would tell the neighbours.  Neighbours would usually know if you were on holiday.  If you weren't - or they didn't think you were - then they would immediately be concerned and raise the alarm.

Thus might the humble milk bottle have been your saviour.

This made me think how vulnerable we are in modern society if we live alone.  After Mum died I used to phone her 93 year old brother (who lived about 550 miles away from Lewis in Anglesey) every night.  He was a bit reclusive.  One night he didn't answer the phone.  After a couple of hours I got in touch with a neighbour.  He had had a stroke and was on the floor a few feet from the phone and unable to reach it - it might as well have been a million miles away.  Had he had the stroke after the phone call instead of before it then it would have been 24 hours before he'd have been discovered.  If I'd missed an evening for some reason then my next call may well have been too late.

He was, however, an exceptionally methodical man and if he'd had milk delivered and had not taken the milk bottle in that day then it would have been noticed by the evening.

Thus might the humble milk bottle have been his saviour.

Of course the story of the humble milk bottle, though real enough, is simply allegorical of the issues that face us in a society that lets one in three people over the age of 60 go a whole week without speaking to anyone at Christmas (according to figures from the UK's Office for National Statistics).

Makes you think!

Thankful Thursday

Various of my Blogland friends and acquaintances have recently mentioned old age and its accompanying infirmity which is affecting their families.  It made me think about the fact that at the moment old age is not an issue in my immediate family as I am now its oldest member.  Gone are the days when the family had many nonagenarians and even centenarians around.  

There has also been some talk about the lack of independence of youth caused by, amongst other things,  the financial constraints of unemployment and student loans and the lack of independence of middle age as people bring up families.

In truth I'm not sure that any of these constraints are worse now than they ever were but every generation has its own perceptions.  

So today I am thankful that I am the age that I am.  I'm not too old to have lost my independence.  Nor am I too young to feel that I have lost my independence.  My age is a pretty good age from where I'm standing at this moment.

Age Cometh Not Alone

In fact I could write a book about it: the glorious freedom of age and so much more.  I may yet at least write some blog postings.  This morning, however, I stepped into the shower with my spectacles on.  Oh dear.

And on that note I’m off to the second day of my last Tournament of the season.  Yesterday my partner and I dropped only one game out of 6 and that by only one hoop.  So I’m a happy little bunny. 

Talking of Memory

I was just writing to a friend and the subject of memory and confusion in old age became relevant.  It occurred to me that CJ and I were spared that although Mum (whose memory at 90+ was better than mine has ever been) referred to her 'forgettory' rather than her memory.

As usual I digress.  When Dad was taken into the nursing home suffering from chronic heart failure and could no longer even lift a spoon to his mouth because his heart would not pump the blood round fast enough to maintain the effort, the Social Worker came to assess him for eligibility to be there.  I had just arrived from the Outer Hebrides and was completely disoriented as to what year it was never mind anything else.  Dad also had macular degeneration and could no longer see to read nor, realistically, to watch television..

After a pleasant exchange the Social Worker asked Dad (who was 94) if he could tell her the date.  Excuse me.  A man with no eyesight in a nursing home single-occupancy room and no radio.  How is he supposed to know the date when I didn't?  I said as much.  The Social Worker and I had a 'discussion' until Dad said "For heaven's sake you two stop squabbling.  It's - whatever the date was.  I finished lunch about half an hour ago.  They probably serve lunch around 12.30.  So I reckon it's probably between 1.30 and 2 o'clock."  He then recited the name of the Prime Minister and a host of other things that the SW was likely to ask him. 

She and I looked at each other sheepishly.  I went and got us coffee!  She asked a few questions related to more personal matters.  Said everything would be ok and that was that.

Somehow I think I'll be lucky. It was pointed out to me this morning that it is Friday 13th.  Oh.  It's Friday is it?  No.  Joking.  I knew that because I have the family for dinner tonight.  But the 13th?  Next someone will be asking me what month it is.  It's late spring.  It must be May.  Oh no.  It's May in the Northern hemisphere isn't it.  So it must be...?   Oh dear.

A Sobering Experience

I was at Petanque today (played passably and had a thoroughly good time).

There is a Netherlander and a Frenchman in the Club amongst those of many and varied Countries of origin. There is a generally a lot of French banter but today there was also some German to which I replied. I was asked how I knew German and mentioned that I had spent many Octobers in Berlin.

The Frenchman said that he'd been born in Berlin.

And now for the sobering bits. I was asked if I'd been involved in Berlin when the war ended! Not when the wall came down or anything like that but WW2.

It had been assumed that I was the age of the Frenchman - assumed by him and by me as it happens. The differences in our understandings of each other's appearance is that I thought he was 63 (my age) and he thought I was 74 (his age).

I feel rather deflated. I think I shall have to apply for one of the TV programme that seeks to get you looking younger (or less ancient anyway).

Bummer.