Slow Down!

Slow Down!

Festival of Britain, 1951

I have always spoken quickly, words tumbling out of my mouth in their rush to get away from me. Even in the classroom I was aware that I was speaking too fast and tried to moderate the speed, without success. Add to that my clipped delivery and fairly quiet voice and you may understand that most people have difficulty hearing what I’m saying. (Naturally, when I was teaching, I ensured that my voice was loud enough to be heard – sometimes very loud. I can project very well when required to do so.)

As an example, this is what my writing looks like these days before I correct it . . . I hace alwysa spoeken qycjkty, words tumblins our of my nmuth in th r rush to gwe awat form me.

Lincolnshire, 1964

Of course, it may just be my poor touch-typing but it is a fact that it is getting progressively worse. It would appear that the less I speak the more my fingers tangle in the keys and produce gobbledegook. When I stopped going out to work (I refused to say I had retired, such vanity! I was not of retirement age and did not wish to be considered OLD) I relished the prospect of not having to talk all day and now I am almost monosyllabic. (You must allow for exaggeration here!)

Now, when required to conduct some sort of social interaction I often fumble for words, desperate to respond intelligibly and not in an ELDERLY fashion and then I see myself as youngsters see me – past it, bless her. It happened the other day when I went to the hospital to have my eyes dealt with (Visual Fields, don’t you know – all those flashing lights, a patch over one eye and then the other and the buzzer in my hand. I’m sure you know the form:  ’Press the buzzer when you see the white light, keep your eye on the orange light in the centre, don’t search for the white light,’ with the result that I frantically press the buzzer, afraid I might miss one of the spots or think back and realise I have missed one. I listen to the buzzers all around me and hear the ophthalmologist explaining patiently to others what they must do and tell myself to concentrate.)

Both eyes having been tested the pleasant young woman (very young . . . how old could she be? Surely not old enough to be doing this job?) asked me, as she had asked every other person, ‘Have you any other appointments today?’ (What did she think? Was I going to have my mental acuity tested or a prosthetic limb fixed?) and that’s when my quick-wittedness came to my aid as I mumbled, ‘No,’ and she said lightly, ‘Oh, another one with no other appointments so you’re free to go now,’ which is when I compounded my elderliness by saying, ‘I’ve got another appointment on July 22^nd,’ thus proving that my memory is not quite shot yet. I wanted to stride out of the room in a parody of youthful energy but my bag strap was stuck under the chair and as I fumbled to free it she came to my aid and picked it up for me. I think she was quite surprised at the weight of it. She didn’t exactly grunt as she lifted it, but I had the impression of renewed respect.

As for stepping out smartly, that was never going to happen. For two months I had sciatica which dissipated to be replaced by pain in my hips (one or other, sometimes both), the result of walking badly because of the sciatica *sigh*. After I’ve been sitting for a while I stiffen and it takes a while to unbend and so I hobbled out, pride not quite intact, thus completing the image of a poor old dear.

Who was it said, ‘Would that we could see ourselves as others see us’?* I’d rather not, thank you. It’s enough of a shock to encounter myself in the mirror and too off-putting to realise that a young slip of a lad or lass is looking at me unable, or unwilling, to understand that one day they too will be old(er).

*I cannot let pass a quotation without checking it to make sure I have it correct. (Is this another instance of impending – or ongoing – decrepitude? Or OCD?) In this case, I didn’t . . .  have it correct, that is. I paraphrased the immortal words of Robert Burns, Rabbie to his familiars:-

O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion. 

 Robert Burns, The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Burns

Blandford, 2013

The Ponytail

The Ponytail

Ponytail by Last Exit

Bank Holiday weekend – cars crawled round the car park searching for a space and then their drivers crawled round the supermarket, queueing to select their purchases, seeking the best bargains and hoping the fine weather would keep. Harassed mothers towed small children, refusing their requests for the sweet and sticky treats so temptingly displayed. Students sauntered along the aisles, filling their baskets with bottles and cans of alcohol and calorie-laden snacks. Lovers wound their arms round each other and ambled around the vast emporium, oblivious to everyone else and preventing them from finding the items they sought.

I was in a hurry. I had not intended going out to shop but my grocery order had been delivered with some of the vital ingredients ‘unavailable.’ Most irritating, particularly as I had guests arriving for dinner in a few hours.

Having found everything, apart from water chestnuts, I looked for the fastest-moving queue. Every check-out desk sported a long tailback of shoppers anxious to unload their trolleys and get home to their barbecues, their drinks parties, their assignations or simply their precious, limited time off. Bank holidays are rare in the UK and each one is anticipated with pleasure.

I joined a queue and began my usual pastime of covertly scrutinising the purchases of my fellow shoppers. Then I began to watch the people in front of me. Each trolley load was swiftly checked out – there was an orchestra of beeps from the check-out desks. Surely the cashiers must hear them in their sleep.

I focussed on the woman in front of me. She had the usual array of tasty treats many people buy to pamper themselves – luxury chocolates, a couple of bottles of good red wine, a glossy magazine and a fine selection of fresh vegetables, fish and meat. I judged she had a family waiting for her to return and cook a delicious meal. I noted her hair – expensively cut and coloured and artfully arranged in a high ponytail, with loose tendrils curling at the sides. Dainty diamond drop earrings threatened to tangle with them and I watched to see if they would catch but they didn’t. At her neck was a silk scarf, one end casually tossed over her shoulder, complementing her crisp blouse. She was so slender! I glanced down at her feet, neatly shod in smart loafers, her slim, pretty ankles just visible beneath the hem of her long, flowing skirt. I looked at my own ensemble and felt shabby in my trainers and gilet. I was envious. It seemed this young woman had all the time and money required to be beautifully presented at all times. Her nails were manicured and polished to perfection and adorned with beautiful rings. A gold charm bracelet caught the light as she packed her items.

With the final things in her bags she turned to pay. With a shock I realised, far from being young, she was a woman of very mature years. Suddenly the hair and clothes seemed wrong, too young, not suited to her age. She caught my eye and smiled as she said, ‘I could have worn purple, you know,’ and I blushed.

All the way home the words of Jenny Joseph’s poem went round and round in my head. ‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me’ and I resolved to be less judgmental in future.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read other offerings.