My best friend Captain Savage writes about the difficulties of getting old and his mum’s Alzheimers. I reckon I’ve been thinking about getting old ever since I was, what, twenty? It never hurts to plan!
My vision is that I’ll have a little flat on my daughter’s country estate. On this estate, there will be all manner of cuddly animals, and I’ll sit on my rocking chair on the verandah patting the goats and dogs and cats and guinea pigs and sheep and…you get the picture, and sipping lemonade.
If I do go dotty (and I already am, a bit) it won’t matter too much, cause I’ve always enjoyed brainless pleasures like the sun on my back and mud on my feet and looking at grass and birds and ants and flowers and eating chocolate. I probably won’t get too worried about who I am and where home is and who is that strange woman with the small children hanging around, because I live in the moment now and I probably will when I’m old too.
On the other hand..my mum is 91 and not having the best of times. Life is boring and painful, and she misses my dad, who died a decade ago. She’s still got plenty of marbles but not her sight or hearing and she can’t go for a walk because of arthritis (and recently it’s got even worse than that – but I won’t go into that now).
Every time I visit her she says she’d rather be dead (she’s a pretty cheerful would-be suicide, mind you). Taking note of all this, I asked a nurse friend the other day HOW one could off oneself, if the need arose – and filed the answer away just in case I ever need it (for me, obviously, not for mum).
Plan B is this: I’ll go to a place of ill-repute (probably my grandkids will know some) and score a whole lot of hard drugs. Then I will go on a massive bender. Come to think of it, I’m kind of looking forward to my 90s….