Do not go gentle...
I don’t know what the world is coming to, I really don’t. I remember the days when 75 year-olds had zimmer frames, got drunk on a thimble of sherry and had to climb the stairs to bed on all-fours. But then, my grandparents were Methodists. What is it with old people today? Why won’t they act their age?
A couple of weeks ago we called in on our aged neighbours, Donald and Susan (names have been changed), to deliver a birthday card for Donald. We found ourselves intruding upon a small family get-together, the clans having assembled for a birthday spectacular the following evening. Nevertheless we were met with the delighted hospitality for which they are well known.
We had hardly got through the door when strong drinks were thrust into our hands. “You must stay for dinner!” said 75-year-old Susan, who was cooking for five already. “Are you sure?” I enquired tentatively, “If it’s not too much trouble...” Susan pinned me to wall with a formidably manicured index finger and bellowed, “SIT! DOWN!”
There followed a wonderful dinner during which more wine was consumed than I would formerly have considered possible. Susan shuttled between the voluminous cellar and the dining-room bearing armfuls of bottles at a time.
Susan and Donald come from humble working class beginnings but through some shrewd investment in Nottingham property have funded a lavish retirement for themselves. They have recently returned from a 2 week cruise on the Queen Mary. Their bar bill was £5000.
Susan’s son turned out to be a bass guitarist in a band of stellar celebrity. We’re not talking about a band that headlines at The Running Horse. ‘M’ had yelled “Hello New York City!” from the stage in Central Park. It was touching to see the interaction between the rock-star and his mum – their mutual affection bridging a yawning cultural chasm.
By 4am I could hardly speak and Susan was freely expressing opinions which would have chilled the blood of Oswald Mosley. ‘M’ responded with soft reprimands, quiet corrections of facts and gentle squeezes of the hand. “Now mum, you really shouldn’t say that…” – it was as strange and wonderful an evening as I have had in a long time.
We took our leave and with the sound of drunken pensioner revelry continuing behind us, we reeled and staggered through the silent, gas lit streets to our home.
The next night they did it all again. For sixty people.
A couple of weeks ago we called in on our aged neighbours, Donald and Susan (names have been changed), to deliver a birthday card for Donald. We found ourselves intruding upon a small family get-together, the clans having assembled for a birthday spectacular the following evening. Nevertheless we were met with the delighted hospitality for which they are well known.
We had hardly got through the door when strong drinks were thrust into our hands. “You must stay for dinner!” said 75-year-old Susan, who was cooking for five already. “Are you sure?” I enquired tentatively, “If it’s not too much trouble...” Susan pinned me to wall with a formidably manicured index finger and bellowed, “SIT! DOWN!”
There followed a wonderful dinner during which more wine was consumed than I would formerly have considered possible. Susan shuttled between the voluminous cellar and the dining-room bearing armfuls of bottles at a time.
Susan and Donald come from humble working class beginnings but through some shrewd investment in Nottingham property have funded a lavish retirement for themselves. They have recently returned from a 2 week cruise on the Queen Mary. Their bar bill was £5000.
Susan’s son turned out to be a bass guitarist in a band of stellar celebrity. We’re not talking about a band that headlines at The Running Horse. ‘M’ had yelled “Hello New York City!” from the stage in Central Park. It was touching to see the interaction between the rock-star and his mum – their mutual affection bridging a yawning cultural chasm.
By 4am I could hardly speak and Susan was freely expressing opinions which would have chilled the blood of Oswald Mosley. ‘M’ responded with soft reprimands, quiet corrections of facts and gentle squeezes of the hand. “Now mum, you really shouldn’t say that…” – it was as strange and wonderful an evening as I have had in a long time.
We took our leave and with the sound of drunken pensioner revelry continuing behind us, we reeled and staggered through the silent, gas lit streets to our home.
The next night they did it all again. For sixty people.
1 Comments:
Gives us 50 somethings a bit of hope!!
Unfortunately no shrewd investments in the Nottingham property market for me (except perhap the one we actually live in...)
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