Age Becomes Her

There’s not a thing you can do about it.  You will age.  So you may as well enjoy it. 

She approaches me as I make my way along the platform to take the 9.55 Virgin train to London Euston. She has an old-fashioned grey rinse and set. That, her tallness and her spectacles give her the look of an old-school librarian.

“I wonder whether you would be prepared to take part in a survey about your journey today?” she asks.

I hesitate. Will there be anything in it for me? I doubt it. Gone are the days of the free lip gloss or chocolate bar.

“If you leave your contact details we’ll put you in a prize draw for a £1000,” she says.

Oh, go on then.

“This age group?” she says pointing to the 45-55 column.

I shake my head and point to the next group up. She doesn’t believe me, I think.

Her eyebrows shoot up.  “It’s terrible getting old, isn’t it?” she says.

“No,” I say. “At least I’ve got my Senior Rail Pass.” 

“Even so,” she says. “I’d rather be younger, wouldn’t you?”

No, I think. “I don’t know,” I say.  “I think I’d rather travel more cheaply.”

She’s younger than me and she doesn’t believe I’m over 60, I think. Get over yourself, woman.    

Becoming 60 doesn’t actually bother me. There’s nothing you can do about it and there are a few perks. Like the Senior Rail Pass. And like feeling justified about being as demanding, critical and grumpy as you like. Not that I abuse that of course. But for goodness’ sake, I’ve been around a while. Show me some respect. And I’m not an old dear. I still have all my marbles, thank you very much. 

I’ve stopped feeling guilty about taking the last seat on the tram.