the werewolf of hampshire: September 2016

Yes, as hard to believe as it is, I am 70 years old!

But there has never been a better time to be 70.

My generation should consider ourselves very lucky. We escaped the horrors of World War II, enjoyed the liberation of the 60s and 70's, purchased a house in our 20s on a low mortgage and then watched as it soared in value over the decades. Now, after years of relatively low taxation, good equity on our homes, and a pension that has matured well, there really is no better time for us to be alive.

Although 70 may be the new 50, the reality of turning 70 marks the beginning of a whole new territory in life, one we used to call “old age.”

Yes you can still carry out many of the more laborious tasks but the difference is that now it hurts! You will also note that the type size of this blog has had to be increased!

In his latest book “The Road to Little Dribbling”, Bill Bryson rants about receiving regular email alerts warning him of the how to recognise if he is having a stroke.

He continues:

I don’t actually need memos to know things are not going well with my body. All I have to do is stand before a mirror, tilt my head back and look up my nostrils. This isn’t something I do a great deal, you’ll understand, but what I used to find was two small dark caves. Now I am confronted with a kind of private rainforest. My nostrils are packed with fibrous material – you can’t even call it hair – of the sort you would find in a thick coir doormat. Indeed if you were to carefully pick apart a coir doormat until all you had was a pile of undifferentiated fibres and shoved 40 per cent of the pile up one nostril and 40 per cent up the other, and took the rest and put that in your ears so that a little was tumbling out of each, then you would be me.

Somebody needs to explain to me why it is that the one thing your body can suddenly do well when you get old is grow hair in your nose and ears. It’s like God is playing a terrible, cruel joke on you, as if he is saying, “Well, Bill, the bad news is that from now on you are going to be barely continent, lose your faculties one by one, and have sex about once every lunar eclipse, but the good news is that you can braid your nostrils.”

The other thing you can do incredibly well when you are old is grow toenails. I have no idea why. Mine are harder than iron now, When I cut my toenails, I see sparks. I could use them as body armour if I could just get my enemies to shoot at my feet.

The worst part about ageing is the realisation that all your future is downhill. Bad as I am today, I am pretty much tip-top compared to what I am going to be next week or the week after. I recently realised with dismay that I am even too old for early onset dementia. Any dementia I get will be right on time. The outlook generally is for infirmity, liver spots, baldness, senility, bladder dribble, purple blotches on the hands and head as if my wife has been beating me with a wooden spoon (always a possibility) and the conviction that no one in the world speaks loud enough. And that’s the best-case scenario. That’s if everything goes absolutely swimmingly. There are other scenarios that involve catheters, beds with side railings, plastic tubing with my blood in it, care homes, being lifted on and off toilets, and having to guess what season it is outside – and those are still near best-case end of the spectrum.

But looking on the bright side the last 10 years have been some of the most enjoyable of my life and have literally flown by.

And we have no plans to slow down, with 3 weeks coming up in Portugal and the entire winter (4 and a half months) in Tenerife.

Here's the Welsh Bards thought for the day:

The Rushmoor press, in headlines inches high,

Relates that Baltzer’s won another Gold,

And not for lunar husbandry, we’re told -

He gets his gong for being old, yet spry.

It’s no surprise – this super Suffolk guy

Who, long ago, in Ipswich, broke the mould,

Belies the records showing that he’s old -

The years don’t weary Chris, though they may fly…

I ought to rush to Rushmoor on a train

To celebrate this big occasion, but

I’m sad to say the Severn Tunnel’s shut;

And now my molar needs another drain,