My generation

Well that’s it, folks – my three score years and ten are up and my legs don’t work like they used to before.  But I still only feel about twenty-three.

Today I turn 70. Apart from returning my driving licence, which I haven’t used for nearly three years, I’m not clear what happens next. How is today different from yesterday? When Ed Sheeran sings, in Thinking out loud:

“Darlin’ I will be loving you till we’re seventy”

I’m wondering:

• Does he stop loving me today?
• Have I reached my sell-by/best before/consume by date?
• Have I to hold on till he’s 70 as well? I’ll be 109 by then.
• None of the above – it’s just an arbitrary date for review, extended from the previous threshold of 64 set by the Beatles.

I like to think it’s the last one, and that my appraisal will show potential for development and improvement over the next few years. Rather than the gloomy prognosis of Psalm 90:10, which offers an optional upgrade to 80 years but with a lot of hard work:

“The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”

I think I’ll skip the add-on for now. I don’t feel old right at this moment. Ask me later today, perhaps, when the meds have worn off. Twenty-three would be nearer the mark. 

Girls in pearls

My Nana Maisie was 70 when this picture was taken in 1962. To the 10-year-old me, she was definitely old. Now, comparing the ‘girls in pearls’ side by side I think we both look our age, but she has clearer skin, and fewer cares in the world. And the twinkle in her eye says she hasn’t forgotten being 23 either. Well, she was very beautiful…

As was I (ha!)

My degeneration

I only feel old when other people stick labels on me. If you’ve read my earlier blog Don’t fence me in, you’ll know that I hate being pigeonholed.

The worst – just before my diagnosis was confirmed – was receiving an appointment letter from the Infirmary inviting me to attend the Elderly Care Clinic. Grrrr!   When I got there I was seen by a fresh-faced doctor young enough to be my child, and I thought “Damn! They’ve fobbed me off with the junior.” That just shows that no-one should jump to conclusions about age, because this junior really knows his stuff about Parkinson’s. Or if he doesn’t, he knows where to look and who to ask. As more and more people are diagnosed under the age of 50 (young onset Parkinson’s or YOPs) these labels will, I hope, morph into something more friendly like Movement Disorders Clinic.

There’s a TV trailer at the moment for a reality show to build two rock bands of older people. I don’t think I’m going to watch it. From what I’ve seen, the folk have been handpicked from Costa Geriatrica to represent some wrinkly stereotypes. These people are the rock generation, and they should be inviting Martin Kemp and co. into our world, not the other way round.

My regeneration

Apart from lots of exercise and fresh air, one of the things that keeps me feeling young is writing. I’m inspired by the late Mary Wesley, who wrote her best works after the age of 70. Strictly non-fiction, I lack the talent to write raunchy novels like The Camomile Lawn. Shame. I’d make a lot more dosh. But I’ve found it fascinating to delve back into the sillier parts of my youth and share them with you. It’s rewarding to hear that you do find these anecdotes entertaining and that they resonate with your own experience.

I write because I can – one day I may not be able to hold a pen or use a keyboard or even have the voice to dictate my story.

I’ve already launched my birthday fundraiser – thank you to everyone who has already sent me a silly challenge for March in multiples of 70. Still room for more! I’ll keep you up to date.

Play > My generation > The Who

Talkin’ ’bout my generation, it’s also Roger Daltrey’s birthday today, still rocking it at 78. “Who?” say the younger people. “Correct,” we reply. I have very happy memories of The Who at the Orchid Ballroom in Purley in the Sixties (Martin Kemp was still in short trousers). Keith Moon sent a drumstick into the audience and it narrowly missed my ear. So The Who make the cut today ahead of Ed Sheeran. Other candidates included The best is yet to come (Frank Sinatra) and You ain’t seen nothin’ yet (Bachman Turner Overdrive).