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 22nd,’
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.
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
