A Certain Demographic

I ponder the whole aging thing lately, as my life accelerates and the days fly by. Friday evening has left me dwelling even more on how quickly times passes, after I attended the 60th birthday of a friend. I met him, the husband of a colleague, in my first year of teaching and they have both remained good friends ever since. These 'signicant' birthdays just keep on coming. The 60th seems particularly cruel - a number that tips you into the 'elderly' category if some cub reporter is writing up your collision with a passing bus while crossing the road. And while you still feel vigorous and energetic, you are in the demographic group that only those selling retirement homes, funeral plans and incontinence or erectile dysfunction products are truly interested in. And yet you are still five years away from the anticipated Gold Card.

Passport to the good life.

One interesting aspect of this aging thing is how differently it has affected our hair. Back in the day I was a mousey blonde and my party hosts were both dark haired. Thirty years on he is grey, while the good Lord has made me into a redhead and my friend into a blonde. But apart from this miracle of aging, there is a darker side which does seem, as if to redress the hair balance, to plaque we females a little more.

And it's not the high-spirited fun Walt Disney would have had us think. Actions, intentions, objects and even words just get lost. Great portions of time are now devoted to trying to recall exactly why one went to a particular room or where one last saw a vital tool. Amusing anecdotes lose their punch when the vocabulary dissolves from one's mind. In the workplace this is not such a problem. My employers have provided me with a set of twenty munchkins who enjoy nothing better than the challenge of locating the missing pen/camera/roll/ruler/book that was in my hand only twenty seconds before. They know where trouble is most likely to strike and are ready to grab the permanent marker  that I have mistaken for a whiteboard pen from my hand, return the key I have left hanging in the lock or retrieve the coffee mug I put down while helping to tie a shoe.

Munchkins at your service - better than any PA.

But at home I'm left to my own devices and it can be months before a missing item turns up in the strangest of places. I am not alone in these problems, and like my fellow sufferers there is that nagging wonder whether these are the initial signs of a ghastly befuddled future. I was pleased then to read an article in the latest North and South. (I got the subscription through Flybuys, a decision greatly regretted and Home and Garden would have been a much better choice. This is in no way an endorsement of the magazine, save your money.) It was all about living with dementia, and its insidious intrusion into lives. It tried to highlight the positives, but it failed - there are no positives. What it did provide was a handy checklist of what are and are not tell-tale signs of things to come. You will be pleased to know I passed with flying colours. I may lose my bankcard, but I don't forget who I bank with. It may take me a moment or two to recall where I parked the car, but I do remember I own a car. But with less than a decade to go until the threshold, I must take great care crossing roads