Age
Posted: Monday, 04 December 2006 |
Disclaimer: I am 38, hungover, grumpy, and my back hurts.
I hate the inevitable ageing process. Things slow down, get harder to work. I need 9 hours sleep a night to function fully. My back has recently decided to become 鈥渓ike an old person鈥檚 back鈥 and ache and spasm. Little point in seeing my doctor, as his mantra for everything is 鈥渓ose a couple of stone鈥 (you spent how long in medical training to keep telling me this?).
So to grab back my youth, like King Canute demonstrating not holding back the waves, I鈥檝e stupidly set myself a target of running a half-marathon in exactly six months. Part of the reason for choosing Benbecula for my first attempt at insanely running 13 miles against the clock is because it鈥檚 as flat as a Norwegian pancake, and also as it鈥檚 very close to a hospital which occasionally is open. Also it is sufficiently far away from Berneray that the entire island won鈥檛 be there to see me collapse after 300 yards and demand oxygen, a glass of wine and a Fray Bentos pie. Though I鈥檝e no doubt that at least half the island will somehow be 鈥渏ust passing鈥 at that exact moment, and it鈥檒l be the source of much amusement and anecdote amongst the customers and staff of the local shop for the next 6 months.
The cognitive effects of ageing are more troublesome. Play the first 3 seconds of any hit record from the first half of the 1980鈥檚 and I can sing all the lyrics, word and tone perfect. Brian, the bus driver on the school bus, blasted Radio One at high volume to keep us quiet and my brain is now wired that way. So I know pretty much all the lyrics from songs by Duran Duran, Soft Cell, Frankie goes to Hollywood, Depeche Mode (early years), Wham and whatever.
But ask me what I had for dinner last night though, and I don鈥檛 have a clue.
At parties, I tend to spend more time in the 鈥渃hill-out zone鈥 (let鈥檚 be brutally honest: the kitchen, a refugee zone without the UN peacekeepers for people petrified they鈥檒l be asked to dance) rather than shaking my excess with the party animals next door. Comfy seats are a luxury (鈥漁ooh, that鈥檚 nice. Am not budging for an hour or two.鈥). And I find myself this morning flicking through the Vermont Country Store and wanting nearly every item in the catalogue. Nice scarves. And candles that last three days (useful in a power cut, yes?). And a device that turns newspapers into long-burning logs for the fire. Perfect.
Meanwhile, my much hipper colleagues in Scandinavia especially are skiing, partying in log cabins in forests, going to concerts (hmmm, worryingly long time since I鈥檝e been to a concert; the music鈥檚 too loud and you can鈥檛 see anything. And there鈥檚 no comfy seat.), having festivals, trekking in the snow, and going outside to see the Northern Lights. Most of these people are the same age or older than me, so it鈥檚 not a 鈥渢hings that the youngsters do鈥 type-thing.
The mass media of the UK indoctrinates its subjects that there (a) must be blame for everything, (b) it isn鈥檛 your fault, (c) someone else is serving out the injustice, (d) you are being pooped on, and (e) it鈥檚 an outrage, but the media is fighting your corner. So in my case, for slowing down and exhibiting the qualities of a hermit, I blame my coal fire.
Make it, light it, and it burns happily away. Mesmerising. I鈥檝e got 鈥渟et in my ways鈥 (argh - an 鈥渙ver 50鈥檚 phrase鈥) of sitting in front of it on a comfy sofa, drinking red wine, and doing sod all else. Meetings elsewhere on Berneray are sometimes (not always) deeply unattractive in comparison - why should I go out in the rain to sit in a cold room next to people who predictably moan about exactly the same issue, using exactly the same predictable words, month in and month out, while my arse goes numb on a hard chair, when I have my fire and sofa back home? A long walk? Not a chance; I鈥檒l wait till it鈥檚 sunny - which will probably be April. Socialising? Bugger that - no roaring coal fire, may not get any red wine, are my hosts seats comfy, what if I am expected to stand or even dance? I find myself this morning making a list (sad) of which households in Berneray have comfy seats (sadder) in case I get invited out again.
When I was young, one of our neighbours was, it turned out, a white witch. She cooked odd things, was often out in the countryside in the night, spoke several odd dialects and died in bizarre circumstances. I鈥檓 not entirely convinced she is dead, but that鈥檚 a different thing. Not long before the incident, she told me I would one day become an owl, wise but quiet, motionless but watching everthing, perched forever more in a favourite tree. Prophesy or curse?
I hate the inevitable ageing process. Things slow down, get harder to work. I need 9 hours sleep a night to function fully. My back has recently decided to become 鈥渓ike an old person鈥檚 back鈥 and ache and spasm. Little point in seeing my doctor, as his mantra for everything is 鈥渓ose a couple of stone鈥 (you spent how long in medical training to keep telling me this?).
So to grab back my youth, like King Canute demonstrating not holding back the waves, I鈥檝e stupidly set myself a target of running a half-marathon in exactly six months. Part of the reason for choosing Benbecula for my first attempt at insanely running 13 miles against the clock is because it鈥檚 as flat as a Norwegian pancake, and also as it鈥檚 very close to a hospital which occasionally is open. Also it is sufficiently far away from Berneray that the entire island won鈥檛 be there to see me collapse after 300 yards and demand oxygen, a glass of wine and a Fray Bentos pie. Though I鈥檝e no doubt that at least half the island will somehow be 鈥渏ust passing鈥 at that exact moment, and it鈥檒l be the source of much amusement and anecdote amongst the customers and staff of the local shop for the next 6 months.
The cognitive effects of ageing are more troublesome. Play the first 3 seconds of any hit record from the first half of the 1980鈥檚 and I can sing all the lyrics, word and tone perfect. Brian, the bus driver on the school bus, blasted Radio One at high volume to keep us quiet and my brain is now wired that way. So I know pretty much all the lyrics from songs by Duran Duran, Soft Cell, Frankie goes to Hollywood, Depeche Mode (early years), Wham and whatever.
But ask me what I had for dinner last night though, and I don鈥檛 have a clue.
At parties, I tend to spend more time in the 鈥渃hill-out zone鈥 (let鈥檚 be brutally honest: the kitchen, a refugee zone without the UN peacekeepers for people petrified they鈥檒l be asked to dance) rather than shaking my excess with the party animals next door. Comfy seats are a luxury (鈥漁ooh, that鈥檚 nice. Am not budging for an hour or two.鈥). And I find myself this morning flicking through the Vermont Country Store and wanting nearly every item in the catalogue. Nice scarves. And candles that last three days (useful in a power cut, yes?). And a device that turns newspapers into long-burning logs for the fire. Perfect.
Meanwhile, my much hipper colleagues in Scandinavia especially are skiing, partying in log cabins in forests, going to concerts (hmmm, worryingly long time since I鈥檝e been to a concert; the music鈥檚 too loud and you can鈥檛 see anything. And there鈥檚 no comfy seat.), having festivals, trekking in the snow, and going outside to see the Northern Lights. Most of these people are the same age or older than me, so it鈥檚 not a 鈥渢hings that the youngsters do鈥 type-thing.
The mass media of the UK indoctrinates its subjects that there (a) must be blame for everything, (b) it isn鈥檛 your fault, (c) someone else is serving out the injustice, (d) you are being pooped on, and (e) it鈥檚 an outrage, but the media is fighting your corner. So in my case, for slowing down and exhibiting the qualities of a hermit, I blame my coal fire.
Make it, light it, and it burns happily away. Mesmerising. I鈥檝e got 鈥渟et in my ways鈥 (argh - an 鈥渙ver 50鈥檚 phrase鈥) of sitting in front of it on a comfy sofa, drinking red wine, and doing sod all else. Meetings elsewhere on Berneray are sometimes (not always) deeply unattractive in comparison - why should I go out in the rain to sit in a cold room next to people who predictably moan about exactly the same issue, using exactly the same predictable words, month in and month out, while my arse goes numb on a hard chair, when I have my fire and sofa back home? A long walk? Not a chance; I鈥檒l wait till it鈥檚 sunny - which will probably be April. Socialising? Bugger that - no roaring coal fire, may not get any red wine, are my hosts seats comfy, what if I am expected to stand or even dance? I find myself this morning making a list (sad) of which households in Berneray have comfy seats (sadder) in case I get invited out again.
When I was young, one of our neighbours was, it turned out, a white witch. She cooked odd things, was often out in the countryside in the night, spoke several odd dialects and died in bizarre circumstances. I鈥檓 not entirely convinced she is dead, but that鈥檚 a different thing. Not long before the incident, she told me I would one day become an owl, wise but quiet, motionless but watching everthing, perched forever more in a favourite tree. Prophesy or curse?
Posted on Digital sands at 13:24
The stuff of dreams, nightmares, and inhaling too much smoke from a peat fire.
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