I can’t deny it any longer. I’m getting old.
On Saturday, we went to The Taunton Flower Show. For one weekend every summer, the lovely Vivary Park in Taunton plays host to a plethora of food trucks; vast competition and exhibition marquees; display gardens; a plant ‘village’; ice cream vans; and myriad stalls. There were folks selling jewellery, garden sculptures, gardening tools, homemade preserves, plants, bulbs, flowers… the list is almost endless.
In the centre of the site is a large arena surrounded by seating where a programme of shows runs throughout the morning and is then repeated in the afternoon. It’s a great way to break up the intense browsing and have a sit down for 40 minutes.
In the morning we watched the wonderful Meirion Owen’s border collies guide Indian Runner ducks through water and a plastic tube. Meirion regaled us with tales of training pups and ridiculous prices paid at auction for a good sheepdog, and someone from the audience was invited to have a go. In the afternoon we watched Jonathan Marshall with his falcons, and his horse, Amadeus.
What getting old means to me
Jonathan Marshall knows how to put on a show. For one thing, he’s easy on the eye, and he dresses the part in tight riding jodhpurs, knee-high riding boots, a black shirt and shades. Our friend Jo had the hots for him, suddenly sitting up straight in her chair and not taking her eyes off him for the whole performance. For another thing, he knows how to make an entrance. As the music for the Lloyds Bank advert built to a loud crescendo, he came galloping into the arena on the most magnificent black stallion I have ever seen, Amadeus, the horse that featured in the advert.
As Amadeus continued to canter around the arena, the music switched to the theme music to the 1972 TV series Black Beauty. Inexplicably, I felt tears run down my face. Mortified, I ferociously wiped them away with a tissue and tried to pull myself together. But then the 1960s White Horses song struck up and I started again!
Having been vividly transported back to my early teens and then to my childhood, I realised I was crying for my lost youth and all the promise it had once held. And I guess that’s what getting old means to me and why it makes me sad.
A milestone
At the beginning of July, I reached the milestone age of seventy years.
I’ve never really been too bothered by the ageing process. I’m still strong, fit and healthy, and most importantly, I’m happy. To me, nothing else really matters. I remember that my 30th birthday took the wind out of my sails (so ridiculous to think of that now) but only for a couple of hours.
I didn’t particularly bother when I got to 60. In fact, it was joyous as it meant I got my occupational pension and a lump sum. To us, living almost hand-to-mouth in Tenerife at the time, it was as if we’d won the lottery. The lump sum was a wonderful thing to see in the account. But it was the knowledge I would get money every single month from now until I finally depart this life that was the truly miraculous thing.
This year, on the actual day of my birthday, I don’t think it bothered me. It was strange to think of myself as being 70 years old, but I didn’t think it had affected me, until last weekend.
The three of us were sitting at the table chatting, and the topic of age came up. I realised, not for the first time, that I’m the oldest of our friends, at least the ones Jack and I have known for all our lives together. I remarked that it was odd to think, one time I was the youngest in my gang of mates. My comment was met with howls of laughter.
‘What mates?!’ they both chorused.
I hesitated, momentarily unable to bring names to mind. Then I remembered something: ‘The ones who went to Cambridge.’
This was met by even more hilarity followed by reprimand that I should find it necessary to point out these earlier ‘mates’ were of a higher quality. There was even an inference I had made them up. Oddly, where up until July I would have conceded the absurdity of mentioning the fact they went to Cambridge (my boyfriend at the time was a Cambridge undergraduate) and laughed at myself, I bristled. Looking back on it now, I realise hitting seventy had hit me harder than I realised and their laughter seemed to compound the disappointment I hadn’t acknowledged I was feeling.
Getting old equates to diminishing opportunity
Riding Amadeus around the arena, Jonathan Marshall talked a great deal about aspiration and believing in yourself. He encouraged the younger audience members to put down their mobiles and the phoney worlds peddled therein, and to look outside to the real world. He told them to move away from their screens and connect with nature. And he told them to follow their hearts and their dreams; to take every opportunity that comes their way and to believe they can be whatever they choose to be.
I had done that. Jack and I had taken chances, taken risks, pursued our hearts and achieved great happiness. We’re still unreasonably happy. And we fully expect there will be more opportunities to come, new adventures. And yet, I know that the magnitude of opportunities diminishes with each year. And that’s why getting old makes me a little bit sad.
I’ll probably be fine by the time I get to 71 years. I’ll be over it.
