Observing the tremulous travails of Joe Biden, I reflected that we’re in two minds about old age. On one hand we pay stiff-upper-lip-service to the stoicism of old people; on the other they’re a warning about what awaits us. (I say ‘us’ out of habit; I got used to always being the youngest person in the room having won my dream job when I was just 17, but I turned 65 this month so I’m officially old.)
Perhaps because I so thoroughly got what I wanted, I’m not sad to see the back of youth
Not wanting to see the gory details of what we can expect, we (understandably) stash them away – like out-of-date CDs we’re too emotionally attached to to actually bin – in storage centres called ‘care homes’. The pandemic highlighted this sad situation; in her brilliant Janet-and-John-style book We Do Lockdown the artist Miriam Elia has the following exchange: ‘We can’t see Grandma in person for at least another three months – I’m heartbroken!’ says Mummy.
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