No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year (7 page)

More interesting is the information, on Lucy’s list, that after sixty I can now get my prescriptions free. Brilliant! I wonder if I could get my pills on standing order, like with banks, so I could have a constant supply of Diazepam, Migril and all the strangely creepy things I have wheedled out of my doctor over the years. When it comes to sleeping, I’m not someone for whom milky drinks at bedtime, plant extracts and natural essences do the trick; namby pamby Valerian and things you can get over the counter at pharmacists, with euphemistic names like Natracalm and Sleepeeze don’t work for me. Instead, give me a prescription for a heavy-duty pharmaceutical knock-out pill. I get on much better with pop-out packs of goodies, things that come with leaflets listing at least three pages of possible side effects, made in laboratories by nice men in white coats.

According to Lucy, I am, apparently, also due a winter fuel payment of £200 a year. But
my
warming fuel will come in a bottle and not through a plug in the wall. And finally, my house insurance might be lower because old people are considered more reliable than young ones. Which is odd. Surely all old people leave the gas on regularly?

It’s a funny old business. I would have thought that if the government was sensible it would double the cost of prescriptions for old people, exclude them from gym, triple their heating bills, raise their taxes and generally do everything in their power to curtail their lives, thus saving the country billions of pounds, but no, they seem determined to keep us dragging on and on. I can see the point when it comes to animals and vets—the vets make a fortune out of keeping pets hanging on to the bitter end. But what’s in it for the government? Absolutely nothing.

Lucy had helpfully added telephone numbers, Web sites and information lines, so of course I got cracking at once and rang the number advertised as the Pension Helpline. I was taken by a mechanized voice through all the options I had, which reminded me that if I was hard of hearing I could get special assistance or, if I found it all confusing, I could get a friend to help me.

My query was finally answered by an old duck called Ernest, not a name I hear a lot these days. He spoke extremely slowly and clearly all the way through the call, and maintained a kindly smile in his voice. At the end of the conversation, he said, in a gentle, friendly, but distinctly raised, voice: “Ta-ra, dearie. And you take care, now!”

I am now a “concession” and can get into most films, art galleries, exhibitions and theaters at special rates. I’m told that abroad the over-sixties have an even better time of it, wandering anywhere they like, their wrinkles a passport to free entrance. The greatest perk of all is that, if I am rudely challenged about my ancient status, I shall not be offended but, rather, deeply flattered.

Tomorrow I shall apply for my Freedom Pass, which will give me free transport—whether it’s for a lazy trip from one bus stop to the next, or from one side of London to the other. In the Underground I shall simply wave my card over something and sail in. None of that fiddling around with money, feeling pathetically inadequate as I stare at a blinking computer screen wondering what zone I’m in. Now I’m in the free zone, the old zone, and that’s the zone I like.

I’m also suddenly in receipt of a pension—£74 a week. True, I will be taxed on it, but still, I shall be quite a bit better off.

Even more fun, I then spent hours trying to cancel standing orders, get passport-sized photographs for the bus pass—all the pleasant rituals of stepping from one age into another.

As a treat, Penny had organized a birthday lunch at an incredibly smart restaurant in Piccadilly called the Wolseley. I remember it as a gleaming bank; later it turned into a Chinese restaurant, and now it is owned by a couple of people who used to own the Ivy. Penny had very sweetly bought me a scarf, though I am not very keen on scarves: they seem to be worn by people who want to hide lizardy necks, and if you haven’t got a lizardy neck there’s no point in wearing one. Wearing a scarf always seems to me rather like planting a row of Leylandii when there’s no nuclear power station to hide.

Unfortunately, as is so often the case these days, the restaurant was so noisy that neither of us could hear the other speak, and we spent an hour just mouthing across the table, pretending we could hear what the other one was saying. All I could gather was that she wanted us to go for a weekend to France as a big birthday treat, on her, which was incredibly kind.

When I got back I found a huge bunch of flowers waiting with the neighbors. It was, oddly, from the now-widowed Archie.

“Happy Birthday!” read the note. Then: “Lunch? Or dinner? Do ring. Much, much love, Archie.”

Dinner? Much, much love? Surely not. It’s odd how, even at my great age, one reads so much into such things. Recently I found myself counting the number of “xx”s a girlfriend had written on an email. Why only one? Why not two? Had I done something wrong? But I must say it would be lovely to see Archie again. He’s always been a friend, along with Mrs. Archie, the poor dead Philippa, but I haven’t had a proper conversation with him
à deux
for a couple of years.

In the evening I went round to Jack and Chrissie’s flat in Brixton for a sixtieth-birthday supper with Hughie and James. I gave James a lift but Hughie stayed behind because he wasn’t feeling well.

In the car, I asked: “What’s up? A cold?”

James looked worried. “He’s had this cough for ages now, and today he really feels terrible. I’ve told him to go to see the doctor, but he won’t. When I ask him to make an appointment just for my sake, he gets angry. I’ve begged him to take arnica and echinacea, but he says it’s all snake oil. I even turned the bed round the other way because I’m certain that facing north does us no good, but he got so angry he just put his pillow down at the bottom and slept the other way round, so I had his feet next to my face.”

“I can’t imagine Hughie angry,” I said. “Or rather,” I added, having just imagined it and been unpleasantly surprised at what my brain came up with, “I can. It must be horrible. Cutting and sarcastic, I suppose.”

“You have it,” said James. “His temper is like a nuclear bomb. Very, very rarely used, but when it is, it causes death and destruction all round.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “He wouldn’t get angry with me because I can do the mumsy old pal act.”

“I wish you would,” said James, suddenly turning to me at the lights, with an expression of such relief and gratitude on his face that I resolved to tackle Hughie as quickly as possible. “Oh,” he added, “congratulations about being a grannie-to-be. Jack told me yesterday when he invited me, but I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

When we arrived at the flat—well, actually, it’s more half a house—Chrissie was looking a little bit fatter, but the pregnancy’s not yet obvious. She isn’t giving up her job till the last minute—she’s one of these dynamic women who’s in charge of marketing some kind of spa therapy around the world and has been known—I’ve seen it—to conduct three conversations at once on different phones.

Much to my astonishment, I found Jack, once king of grunge, sitting on the sofa, wearing a cardigan and reading the
Guardian.
The realization that one’s child is not only an adult, but a responsible adult who is about to become a father is quite astonishing. Phrases like “Don’t you think, darling, that you might polish your shoes now and again?” seem to dry up before their bony fingers even start plucking at the vocal chords.

They had ordered an Indian take-away, with extra pappadams, which was delicious, Chrissie had baked a totally scrumptious chocolate cake and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” They had all clubbed together to buy me a DVD player. Can’t quite think when I will use it, as I am never in, but I was incredibly touched. Perhaps they imagine that every night I curl up with a video and a crossword puzzle. I also got a whole pile of special soaps and bath gels, which Chrissie got from work, none of which I can use, unfortunately, because I am at an age when I am allergic to every single product with scent in it and have to stick with boring old Simple soap. But it was a nice thought.

Nicest present of all was a pedometer, which I’d asked for. Since I’m now out of the bunion shoes, armed with this gadget I’ll be able to find out if I am remotely fit. Feel a bit nerdy wanting a machine to tell me whether I’m taking enough exercise or not, but after five minutes pottering around the flat and going to the loo once, I’d already clocked up about one hundred steps, so I felt delighted with myself. I think I’ll have to keep it on somehow in bed because these days I must go to the loo about three times a night, and it would be a shame to miss out on a few steps. Though it might be a bit uncomfortable trying to sleep with it under my nightie.

“What do you want to be called, Mum?” Jack asked. “When the baby arrives.”

Having been brought up by two people who tried to insist I call them by their Christian names, I long for everyone to be called by their proper family names—from Daddy and Mummy to Auntie and Uncle. Then, when a friend at school refers to their own grannie, they can join in the conversation with chat about their gran, too. Not their own “Annabel” or “Chris.”

So, naturally, I replied that I wanted, if at all possible, to be called “Grannie.” Obviously if the baby couldn’t manage it, I’d be happy with “‘Moo Moo” or “Grandy” or whatever it came up with. I wouldn’t even mind being called “Grungy” or “Grumpy.” When Philippa was alive I remember she couldn’t bear the word “grannie” and even balked at the word “grandchild,” insisting that hers was always referred to as her “daughter’s baby.”

“I think you ought to be called ‘Glammy,’” said James. “You’ll be the most glamorous grannie I know.”

“Glammy!” said Jack and Chrissie in horror, together. “How naff!”

“Well, it’s better than ‘Gaga,’” I said, not that I’d like to be “Glammy,” of course.

“The five ages of man,” said James. “Lager, Aga, Saga, Viagra, Gaga.”

It was my first night of being sixty and I slept like a baby.

February 4

Went to a “cozy birthday supper” with Marion and Tim, which was much jollier than the last time. Just us, and not a therapist in sight. Tim had written me a beautiful poem, which he read out, rather drunkenly, over pudding.

Very flattering and sweet, of course, but that preoccupation with being young unnerves me.

I’d have been very happy with a poem that went:

Or something like that. I would never have made a poet, clearly.

Slightly worried to find that, driving back, I couldn’t see a thing, I stopped and cleaned my glasses but still everything seemed incredibly fuzzy.

Feb 5

Rang up Penny and asked if she could see. She said yes, she could. I then asked her if she could see in the dark and she said no, only vampires, owls and moles can see in the dark, and I said but seriously, I can’t see when driving and I can’t see to read in bed at night. So she looked the problem up in her book
Eyes: Problems Of
and it turns out that after sixty, people need two-thirds more light to read by than they did when they were twenty. Made a date with the optician’s at once.

Penny has booked a jaunt to Nice for us in June.

Feb 6

Is there actually something wrong these days with the word “old”? I wonder. I was in Waterstones today and saw a book that was a compilation of quotes from people over sixty with the unbelievable title
Late Youth.
What are all these euphemisms? I’ve even heard people talk of the “autumn of life.” I’m starting to think that “old” is becoming a dirty word. While I quite understand why we should avoid using certain words, not using the word “old” seems as coy and ludicrous as Victorians putting skirts on their piano legs because they felt so uncomfortable at the sight of them.

Though I was rather touched by Hughie who the other day described James’s aunt of ninety-five as “
very
grown up indeed.”

Feb 7

Had lunch with Lucy in her London pied-à-terre. She gave me a lovely pot of hyacinths. She does yoga and showed me the Sun Salutation on her carpet. Luckily, I managed to do it, too, though I didn’t like it when your leg has to be stretched out behind you.

“We’ve got to stay fit,” she said, worriedly, “or we’ll fall to pieces.” She dreads becoming sixty because she thinks that something terrible will happen to her.

“You know when teenagers reach fourteen they go to bed the night before their birthday perfectly sweet and amiable, and wake up on their fourteenth birthday sulky, slamming doors, spotty and telling you they wished they’d never been born,” she said. “Well, I believe that the day before I’m sixty I’ll go to bed perfectly normal, and wake up on my sixtieth birthday ranting about the state of the world, shouting that teenagers have no respect, and complaining about the amount of rubbish left on my street.”