NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED

Who was it who first said that growing old is not for the faint-hearted? The “not for sissies” version is attributed to Bette Davies, and there are other variations which basically suggest that it’s not for cowards, but I wonder whether the notion has been around for far longer than that. It is, after all, one of the essential truths of life and one which, if you’re lucky enough to survive long enough, tends to cross everyone’s mind eventually.

After all, when every telephone call can bring dreadful news of someone you know or someone you admire not making it, and every news broadcast can tell you of another much-loved iconic “immortal” slipping off this mortal coil, each and every day brings with it new fears, new terrors and new disappointments to have to cope with.

And that’s not even considering the night terrors when you start to believe that every louder than usual thump of your heart, or each strange new lump and bump you find, or every twinge or ache that shoots across your chest or your limbs, or every unusual visit to the bathroom, might just be the first indication of something which might eventually kill you, assuming of course that your failing eyesight and slower reflexes don’t lead you into a head-on collision on the roads, or that picking up one too many shopping bags doesn’t put that sudden fatal strain on your system because inside your mind you’re still a teenager, or that some actual teenager with a bloody great big knife takes a liking to the idea of taking your wallet from you.

My God! It’s terrifying!

I used to wonder why my mother and her friends used to sometimes appear to be so damned rude to each other, and talk to each other in such a curmudgeonly and irritated manner. They could be downright nasty to each other at times. I imagine that, at some point, you’ve overheard the impatient snapping in the car parks and supermarkets between a couple of oldsters, or had to listen to the bickering of supposed friends as they sit in the tea shop.

I thought it was just because you get to a certain age and you just don’t care what people think, but now I’m beginning to understand that it’s perhaps more born from fear and frustration and the sense that if you don’t gee somebody up they might just get left behind and that will mean another friend lost, and another trip to the crematorium, and another lonely silence at the end of a telephone number.

I wonder what would happen if we all came with a built-in self-destruct system that we had personal control over? Maybe a button buried deep inside the ear-hole or somesuch, one which only we could press and which only responded to our own touch to complete the circuit. How many of us would just push the thing and get it over with rather than waiting for the inevitable horrors which are beyond our own control? By just thinking a certain sequence and following it up with a quick digit to the lug-hole and “ZAP! THUD!” it would all be over and you’d have slipped into oblivion with a happy thought in your heart and your finger sticking in your ear.

Of course, there’s the tricky matter of not knowing the outcome of certain things, or not seeing the third part of that trilogy you’d been enjoying, but that, unfortunately, comes with the territory anyway. Also, in general, other people might not be ready for us to go yet, but then other people generally never are, and if you wait around forever waiting for everyone to get themselves sorted out and get their act together, you’ll find yourself snapping and bickering in the car park just like everyone else.

Granted, there would have to be safeguards put in place. Otherwise, well, there’d be an awful lot of us who wouldn’t make it through teenagerhood because of an unexpectedly spectacular zit, or a particularly horrendous rejection by the girl or boy of our dreams, but maybe the laws of evolution could have got around that by not having it activate until somewhere in your thirties, or whenever it is you finally realise that the universe doesn’t actually revolve around you, or by adding one of those “failsafe” messages like the ones which ought to be attached to “one-click” ordering and remind you that you’re actually purchasing a load of old tat: “Are you sure you want to buy ‘Richard Clayderman Plays The Beatles’…?”

Dear God! If it ever came to that, I’d have my fingers in my ears so fast…