Lee Janogly - Getting Old: deal with it

GETTING OLD: DEAL WITH IT

Mensch Publishing

51 Northchurch Road, London N1 4EE, United Kingdom

First published in Great Britain 2020

Copyright Lee Janogly, 2020

Lee Janogly has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: PB: 978-1-912914-03-6; eBook: 978-1-912914-04-3

For my beloved grandchildren
Jack, Gabs, Levi, Gigi, Ava, Rosa and Talia
This will happen to you one day!

In memory of Avril Norden
19212018
who grew old so gracefully

CONTENTS

1943

I am four years old and, as you can see in the picture, I am wearing my new white shoes which I mustnt get dirty. I was born with frizzy, unmanageable hair which could only be tamed by my mummy winding sections of wet hair round her finger and dropping each one into a large sausage curl, which she would tie into bunches with ribbons. My mummy is very old. I know this because when she sits on a chair her feet touch the floor.

My sister has just been born. She is called the baby and I dont like her. Mummy said do you want to kiss the baby and I said no. I hope they send her back.

Everyone around me is talking about the WAR. My daddy is in charge of that because he is the WAR-den and has to wear an itchy brown uniform. My daddy is very old. I know this because he has to scrape the hair off his face every morning.

Sometimes there is a very loud noise which means the naughty men are going to fly over in their aeroplanes and make the bangs. They are called The Nasties. When that happens my daddy shouts, come on, come on, hurry up and everyone stops what they are doing and we all run into a deep cave in the garden I think its called an airing shoulder until the bangs stop. Then my daddy calls all clear and we come out.

Most days, though, I go to school. My mummy walks me there and on the way we pass some men from another country called American-Air-Base. One of the men is tall with a silly haircut which makes his head flat. He is very old and waits for mummy and me to pass by every day and we stop for a chat. I think he is a friend of Mummys because she does that funny smiley thing and looks up at him through her eyelashes. His name is Howie and he gives her bars of chocolate and chewing gum. Mummy kisses him to say thank you. Her kisses last a long time so he must give her lots of chewing gum. Then Mummy says to me, Say goodbye to Howie, and I try to look up at him through my eyelashes like she does, but she just says to me Whats the matter, do you feel sick?

I dont like school at all and cry every day. I thought if I cried loud enough mummy would take me home but she doesnt, she just waits by the door. I keep looking round to see if she is still there because I want to stay with her and not get evacuumed like the children next door, but she must have slipped off while I was playing with plasticine, which isnt fair. We learned a song in a foreign language which goes Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey, a kiddley divey too wooden you.

At break time we play ball and I like that, though I do feel sorry for someone called Hitler that people sing a song about, because we have lots of balls and he only has one.

I hope when the war is finished I wont have to go to school any more. But my daddy said when its all over he will buy me a bicycle and I can also have a banana. I dont know how to ride a banana but Im sure Ill soon learn.

I suppose I will be very old one day. Ill know this because when I sit on a chair my feet will touch the floor.

Fast forward 76 years

Have you ever stood behind an old, old person at the checkout in a supermarket? She watches as the cashier helpfully packs her shopping for her, whilst chatting happily about the weather and how it affects her arthritis. Once her purchases are safely in her tartan wheelie bag she stands there expectantly until it dawns on her: Oh yes, she has to pay for it! Theres a surprise. Only then does she dive into her cavernous bag to find her purse her Clubcard rummage, rummage, now where is it? It should be maybe its in the zippered compartment oh, what have we here, some money-off coupons! Are these still valid? No dear, they expired three months ago, and these are for Boots and this is Tesco. Really? Oh, what a shame. She peers at the display then counts out her coins to the exact penny, while you jiggle and fume with irritation. Dont. One day that will probably be you.

Or me. I have to confess Im the one holding up the queue at the cinema in front of the machine, trying to extract my pre-ordered tickets which it is reluctant to part with, or give me back my credit card. Or did I insert my travel card by mistake? Maybe. That is also me calling loudly for a human assistant at the self-service checkout in the supermarket to try and quell the infernal bleating of the voice insisting that there is an unidentified object in the bagging area. CAN I GET SOME HELP HERE? What? Oh, its my umbrella. Sorry.

Me, old? Nah.

You may have noticed another sign. Whenever you are talking to an older person, whatever the subject, she will eventually contrive to inject her age into the conversation, whether its relevant or not. Yes, airports are a nightmare today, you have to walk for miles to get to the gate, but I can manage even though (pause for maximum effect) Im 73, you know. The pride with which they say this leaves you no choice but to stagger back in amazement and tell them its not possible as they look no older than 40. You lie.

It seems that everyone wants to be the oldest and look the youngest. They get so used to the faux surprised and complimentary comments about how young they look that eventually, when asked their age, they craftily add a year, such as Next year Ill be 74. No! Really?!

The obvious lesson to be learned here is never ask anyone to guess your age. They may get it right! I dont look 73, do I? (Not anymore!)

I think were all deluded about our age to a certain extent depending on our mood or whether we had a good nights sleep. I know that sometimes I can look in the mirror and think, You know what, you dont look bad. Other times, particularly after a late night which included some sugary dessert followed by a bar of Cadburys finest, the same mirror shows a raddled, puffy old hag with lines and wrinkles that definitely werent there the day before. Some mirrors are just like that.

In my opinion age falls roughly into the following categories:

Up to 20 = very young

20 35 = young and lovely

35 50 = lovely

50 70 = middle-aged

70 80 = mature and wise

80 90 = old

90 100 = ancient

100+ = youve overstayed your welcome, time to leave the party

If, like me, you were born in the 1930s or 40s I often wonder how we managed to reach adulthood relatively intact. I remember as a child of eight or nine going off on my bike after breakfast to meet my friends during the school holidays, and not coming home until teatime. As long as I eventually turned up, my mother didnt seem concerned at all. At the local park or wherever I was, I dont remember being accosted by anyone unpleasant, nor were there gangs roaming around looking for someone to mug or stab. I cant imagine a child today being allowed to roam free in that way.