Penelope Lively’s diary: My old-age MOT

My surgery has been calling in all those over 75 for a special session with their doctor — a sort of old-age MOT. I came out of mine pretty well, I thought: I could remember the name of the Prime Minister, blood pressure excellent, spark plugs need cleaning, windscreen wipers ineffective, bodywork showing signs of wear. But not too bad for 80. Gerontologist Tom Kirkwood, in his book Time of Our Lives, gives a clinical but excellent and entirely comprehensible account of what we should expect, and what can and cannot be done about it. His study of a group in their mid-eighties found that not one had zero age-related disease, and most had four or five. We take our pick: hips, knees, macular degeneration and so forth. Friends and acquaintances of my age can serve up the full range, and I warm most to those who are making a good fist of it. Complain — yes, fine. Make a fuss about getting all the alleviation that’s possible. But no whingeing as though uniquely afflicted. Sidelined? Well, up to a point, and that’s in the nature of things. You no longer want to be out there taking the flak. I have a beady eye out for ageism, but don’t much come across it. And consider the compensations. You are sure of a seat on the bus, and if nobody cedes one there will be a reproachful voice announcing: ‘I think this lady would like a seat.’ And you can play the age card when confronted with anything you don’t want to do.

The surgery is multicultural and polyglot. The touchscreen on which you can sign yourself in offers instructions in Russian, Polish, Spanish, French, Arabic, Turkish, Somali — and something I can’t identify.