Middle Age – O, The Injustice of It All!

Recently as I left a café, here in Seville, global capital of courtesy and exquisite good manners[1] I held the door open for a lady of a certain age who was behind me. Now, I had been taught in my childhood to open the door for a lady, to say please and thank you &c., &c., &c. so holding a door open, especially a spring-loaded one that was liable to slam back in another person’s face, seemed to me a wholly logical as well as courteous thing to do.

HM the Royal Trout, dentures out, & enjoying
a quick ciggie in the back parlour while Phil
the Greek fixes a G&T and gets out the pork
pies & crisps.

What took me by surprise, however, was that not only did the lady (and I use the term
 very lightly indeed) not say thank you, but also that her only acknowledgement of my presence was her shoving me aside to scuttle out first. Initially nonplussed, I recovered quickly enough to remonstrate with the old trout for her exceedingly bad manners. Now it was her turn to be nonplussed. I suppose I could say that she stood there gaping like a fish out of water.

And so to the nub of the matter. I now have, as they say,  snow in my beard and as such am all but an officially old git. Old gitdom has both its advantages and disadvantages – but a lot fewer disadvantages.

Advantages:

Even though at my advanced age, one is half blind and has the reaction times of a sprightly glacier, car insurance costs a hell of a lot less.

I’m beginning to understand the attractions of a nice bowl of soup and a chucky egg for supper.

I now comprehend the interest in and, indeed, usefulness of technical knowledge of the carpet slipper. Many a jolly in-depth conversation is to be wrung from the subject when in the company of other bollocks-talking old gits.

Wellington in his party hat.

I can wear a cushion on my head and pretend to be Napoleon or Wellington, whichever takes my fancy.

And I can wear a loud tartan dressing gown and a smoking cap around the house – and wear them to go outside and throw out the rubbish.

Playing dominoes becomes a source of endless fascination.

Make me laugh, Granddad

Playing with one’s dentures (I have all my own teeth, let it be known) in public is to be expected, especially if you learn how to make clacking noises when you talk. Also recommended for denture wearers is a goodly supply of strong mints to hide the aroma of trapped, fermenting saliva but hey, that's not the denture owner's problem. As they say "every dog likes the smell of its own farts" talking of which...

Farting in company. While still not acceptable, it is accepted. This is all part of cultivating one’s image as a racy old rascal; embarrasing but not embarrassed.

Embarrassing one’s children. Is there anything better?[2]

But most wonderful of all is that once you’re over the age of fifty you somehow automatically gain respect. Now this truly is mysterious. You can do and say what you like – for example telling (even) old(er) ladies off for bad manners without being regarded as an uncouth brat.

OK, all of this is rather jolly, but the point of this entry is quite simply to point out the injustice of the fact that when we reach a certain age, we automatically enjoy the respect of those around us, however scandalous our behaviour might be (re. the old trout and the door). How do we magically arrive at an age where opinions we have always held become serious and worthy of consideration while the nose-pierced young “hooligan” sitting next to me on the Clapham omnibus might hold the same opinions, yet his are deemed worthless and his protests bad mannners?

Let us cut some slack for the kids and be a bit more demanding of the older members of society. Respect isn’t a privilege that comes with age – it is something that has to be earned and maintained by hard work.

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[1] An example of, as they say here, fine British irony.

[2] Obviously, I do none of the above; I just quote them as examples.