I sit and breathe deep. I think of all those we have loved and lost these days. Has not all thought become strangely recalibrated? It feels like one of those seismic moments when the atomic bomb exploded, ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds’.
The poor have suffered disproportionately. Refugee numbers have swelled as the fear of fleeing is outweighed by the danger of staying in areas afflicted by conflict, famine, or drought. In response, the wealthier nations have pulled up the skirts of their borders to avoid being besmirched by the hordes. Old racial, religious, national, and sexual prejudices have harmonized with the selfish preoccupation finding vogue. Fashions fly in and fly out, but who would’ve thought that while we face a global pandemic these old poisonous siren calls would lure us onto familiar rocks once again.
We’ve lost 3,9 million citizens, so far, to this new virus and yet there is little soul-searching as to the lessons learned. Older problems causing even greater numbers of deaths each year are usually largely ignored.
•Globally, at least 2 billion people use a drinking water source contaminated with faeces. We shouldn’t be surprised then that 850,000 of them die each year because they have no clean water.
•Nine million die each year in this world from hunger.
•Seven million die each year from smoking.
•Three million die every year from the consumption of alcohol.
•At least 2.8 million people die each year as a result of being overweight or obese.
•4.6 million die each year just from air pollution.
We have money-making industries that thrive despite causing millions of these deaths each year and I fear it is viewed as merely collateral damage.
Nations have shown a perverse greed to protect only their own during this pandemic, allowing others to die from a simple lack of oxygen or access to a vaccine. There are lessons needing to be learned about how corruption plagues society. Of how even personal protection equipment can become a moneymaking endeavour for those with the wrong perspective but the right connections. How much money marshalled to face this pandemic threat has been swiftly side-tracked into the coffers of those whose greed exceeds their integrity. I fear we are suffering from a moral decay that has been eating into the vitals of human society for some time. It has lowered humanity’s immune response and as a result, opportunistic cancerous elements have been given free rein.
Yet, I have a hope that the younger generation has a clarity the older population may have lost. They are not afraid to make the changes that we, who have been moulded for decades by this system, cannot. Whether it is admitting climate change, addressing injustice, or simply wanting transformative decisions on gun control, I find myself respecting this younger generation more and more. Astonished at how much they understand and how clear their thought processes are. Not tied into toxic habits that have twisted our own mindset. They are more united and more in touch with each other. They question these false gods of consumerism, materialism, and all the other ‘..isms’ that have dictated so many of the poor choices we have made.
The world is tired of words it wants actions. It requires deeds that show we have found a way to live moral, responsible lives that contribute to the health of both this world community and our precious planet Earth
There are things that are really difficult. Difficult to start, difficult to do and occasionally impossible to complete. But for every single problem, we encounter there is often somebody out there who has found a way of solving it. And if you want a quick easy shortcut then it obviously pays to examine and learn from those who have mastered it. Everybody comes at life from a different path. Indeed, they sometimes from a completely different direction and their landscape can look starting different from our own but they may well have learnt something along the way that you haven't.
One of the beauties of the internet is that we get a chance to benefit from other unique perspectives. We can learn tricks and insights that even if we had a lifetime it would never occur to us to use. So in this posting, I wanted to focus on those surprising things that I have found work. They are a weird assortment and I make no apologies for that. Usually, the solution has been found by typing in my problem on the Internet and doing a Google search. Invariably this has resulted in a list of crazy suggestions tried by others and I usually give some of them a try. Needless to say, there have been many disasters along the way and in this posting, I wanted to highlight the successful ones that actually helped me. I share them in the spirit of someone who has sieved a load of rubbish and found a few nuggets of value worth retaining.
Ironing out defects
The first problem was how to remove water stains from wooden tables. My mother's coffee table was stained because someone placed hot cups on its surface. The white round marks ruined its look and my mother hates imperfections. I came across this video and have used the technique ever since to great success. Whenever a new white ring appears on any wooden surface my mother instructs me to use 'that weird iron technique' to get rid of them. My apologies if it doesn't work for you. I can only say that it has worked every time for me. I'm not responsible if you burn yourself so please take care. But it has worked so often and so well I feel I have to share it with you. Personally, I find using no steam is better so either empty your iron of all water or turn off that option on your iron.
The medicine for dirty irons
The second trick is iron-related too and needs to be mentioned here at this point probably. What to do when your iron gets really dirty from ironing wood, or burning garments, or becomes sticky with some gunge. Having tried and watched others using sponges, dishwashing liquid, elbow grease and more dangerously even knives or metal scrubbers on irons I found the answer was paracetamol tablets. Yes, you read that right. Not for consumption but to remove the stain. I know you are questioning my sanity here but having first used this technique doubting it could possibly work I am a convert - it does! Just make sure steam is off and you don't burn yourself while doing it.
Dancing as therapy
How to make dancing fun. I am so self-conscious as a dancer that I look embarrassing on a dance floor. Any audience is enough to trigger my inability to look even vaguely normal. This is why I am so happy to watch others excel at it. I am never going to be able to attain success but am settling for watching that it can actually be achieved by others. Some do manage to excel and I can celebrate that even while failing myself.
Looking out for your neighbour
How to keep your neighbourhood safe. When visiting a village near Oxford recently, I met an elderly lady who was concerned about all the people who lived on her street during Covid lockdown. She knew many were quite old like herself, lived alone or had health issues and worried that things could be really difficult under a pandemic. So she set up a WhatsApp group for every single neighbour on her street. Then, made sure all were checked in by phone regularly. When such contact was maintained, much-needed groceries could be delivered, medicines provided and most importantly of all, every single member of the street felt part of a tightly bound concerned community. Isolation can kill and I was blown away by this small grey-haired lady's single-minded determination that no one would be neglected in difficult days. It taught me that we may find it impossible to solve the problems of a city or a town or even a village but at a neighbourhood level, individuals can begin to do so much.
Building your own home
I found this obscure video with no talking or conversation that lasts for hours and hours about a guy making his own log cabin in the wilderness. Thought it was one of those oddities that only I would watch, then had a conversation with my brother and realised he had also got hooked on this strange tale. Here I share the five-minute speeded up version but if you fancy total relaxation, look for the longer version.
Learning Languages
Easy Trick to speaking French. Apologies for this to all my french friends and relatives but he is just so funny I have to include him.
My father had a huge set of Encyclopedia Britannica which travelled the world with us. I remember as a child fondling the huge black volumes of which there seemed to be dozens and later mastering the two books of indexes which helped you to find the information you sought. I was awestruck that there was so much to learn from these massive bound books. This was the world before the internet and I felt especially blessed that our home housed such a treasure-trove. It did not matter what homework was given by teachers, this set of encyclopedias provided the gold standard information on any topic.
Later, as a teacher, when a student of mine quoted Wikipedia or some Facebook posting in their assignments I would sigh in vain that now the information highway was so full of nonsense it seemed miseducation was the goal, not truth. Then, years later helping students with their masters and Ph.D. thesis I realised this highest form of education was just endless repetition of the knowledge of others changed slightly to avoid the cry of plagiarism. Okay, the sources used were peer-reviewed journals and much sounder than a web posting but this puerile packaging and sharing of the knowledge of others seemed to have become the new gold standard. That feels wrong for so many reasons and I like this quote which gives a different definition and highlights some of the flaws of this particular knowledge system.
“Knowledge is a light which God casteth into the heart of whomsoever He willeth.” It is this kind of knowledge which is and hath ever been praiseworthy, and not the limited knowledge that hath sprung forth from veiled and obscured minds. This limited knowledge they even stealthily borrow one from the other, and vainly pride themselves therein!"
Bahá’u’lláh
When visiting my new baby granddaughter in England I wandered into an old graveyard in a beautiful hamlet outside Oxford and discovered the grave of George Orwell, one of my Dad's favourite authors. Weeks later I wanted to read more about this writer and turned to the once so reliable online Encyclopedia Britannica as my source. Expecting a balanced account of this brilliant writer I found myself disturbed by the tone of this particular entry. Let me quote a few of the offending sections,
"He was born in Bengal, into the class of sahibs. His father was a minor British official in the Indian civil service; his mother, of French extraction, was the daughter of an unsuccessful teak merchant in Burma (Myanmar)."
Exactly who cares if his father was a minor official and why does the business success or failings of George Orwell's maternal grandfather reflect on the writer? Does this not say more about the reviewer and their perspective of what is considered valuable? If he had come from a long line of wealthy slave transportation businessmen with vast inherited estates would this reflect better on George Orwell?
"Their attitudes were those of the “landless gentry,” ... lower-middle-class people whose pretensions to social status had little relation to their income."
Oh dear, does anyone else feel that this statement is strangely disturbing?
"Orwell was thus brought up in an atmosphere of impoverished snobbery."
Here one wants to ask the person constructing this piece, is this meant to be the snobbery George Orwell experienced as a result of being poor? In which case perhaps a different phraseology would be appropriate?
"After returning with his parents to England, he was sent in 1911 to a preparatory boarding school on the Sussex coast, where he was distinguished among the other boys by his poverty and his intellectual brilliance."
I have no problems with the young George Orwell being distinguished by the brilliance of his mind. However, I resent the implications that his being poor made him distinguished in some fashion. Perhaps it would have been better to say that all the other students around him in the school were exceedingly rich.
"He grew up a morose, withdrawn, eccentric boy, and he was later to tell of the miseries of those years in his posthumously published autobiographical essay, Such, Such Were the Joys (1953)."
Here is an extract, from George himself, in that very essay, which tells the first few weeks of being sent to a private boarding school for the first time.
“Soon after I arrived ... I began wetting my bed. I was now aged eight, so that this was a reversion to a habit which I must have grown out of at least four years earlier. Nowadays, I believe, bed-wetting in such circumstances is taken for granted. It is a normal reaction in children who have been removed from their homes to a strange place. In those days, however, it was looked on as a disgusting crime which the child committed on purpose and for which the proper cure was a beating.”
And beatings were given regularly and harshly in this establishment at first by means of a riding crop, but when this broke during a harsh thrashing, a more sturdy implement took its place. It was also clear to George at this very young age that those whose families were rich did not receive the same level of brutality. Even the treatment meted out by older boys was cruel and as George himself sadly pointed out, "Against no matter what degree of bullying you had no redress." Little wonder then in this environment George became sad, uncommunicative, and was regarded as unconventional by others.
George won two scholarships to elite public schools, Wellington and Eton, not due to his birthright or family wealth but as a result of his abilities. Despite his brilliance, he chose not to go on to university but instead led a full life enriched with experiences he would later use in his writing. My favourite books of George Orwell are Animal Farm, 1984 and Down and Out in Paris and London. He is an insightful and brilliant writer whose perspectives need to be more widely embraced. Poverty is never viewed the same way after reading the last of these books and 1984’s is a powerful prophetic piece. Animal Farm is one of the most hard-hitting political storytelling pieces and my admiration of the character Boxer lingered from childhood to adulthood.
It took me a long while to find Geroge Orwell’s grave because he did not use his pen name but his own given name Eric Arthur Blair on the gravestone. Orwell’s friend, a member of the Astor family, had helped provide George Orwell the privacy he needed to finish his last book 1984 on the remote Scottish island of Jura. This editor professed great admiration for Orwell's "absolute straightforwardness, his honesty and his decency" and insisted that on his own death he would be buried under an equally simple gravestone in a plot just beside his friend. Somehow as a writer, George Orwell was able to convey a humanity and sensitivity that embeded within it the knowledge he had won from his own life experiences. These were not stolen from someone else but crafted by a brilliant mind from all that he had observed and magically challenges those that read it.
Jeannie McCafferty knew she was unlucky. It was clear from before she was born it would be the case. Her mother Mary had had a difficult pregnancy and was strangely sick not just in the early months of the pregnancy but for the whole long nine months. Mary’s wrists became as thin as a fragile child’s. Her husband George watched, worried and restless as the birth approached. When Mary died shortly after the birth George felt that he had stood by as his sweet wife wasted away and those shrinking fragile wrists were a marker of her gradually being taken from this world.
For George, a poor farmer with no wife and a newborn the world felt empty and pointless. However, his sister Taise moved into the home and helped with the baby and Jeannie was a happy healthy baby who gradually brought laughter to their little house. She grew and though unlucky was as lovely as her mother so George was amazed how his heart healed with time and he knew his progress when he felt gratitude as he walked the fields around his small house with Jeannie’s small hand in his.
Jeannie remembered as a toddler being afraid of the scary tree in the garden and crying each time she saw it. There was something about its twisted tortured green moss-covered branches that reminded her of a crowd of people wailing and holding their thin arms aloft in distress. When the wind blew the crowd became frantic and frenzied and Jeannie could not even look at the tree. She called it the tree of sorrow and sadness. George was amused at her sensitivity. He knew the neighbours called Jeannie unlucky and noticed how they often sighed in sympathy when they saw the young girl in the fields playing. George had no time for such nonsense his fields were few and earning a living was a full-time job. They had a cow, chickens and grew tomatoes as well as vegetables in a small greenhouse outback. But life was always close to the edge and George worked hard in his fields to squeeze out every penny they needed. His hands were huge like shovels and Jeannie never felt as safe as when he clamped her small hand in his massive paw and walked with her chatting at his side.
George’s sister Taise was a quiet kindly woman of few words yet she kept the range going all the year round and like a magician constantly conjured up sweet-smelling soda bread on its top and wonderful wheaten bread and cakes from its oven. The three of them formed a team that worked well. George and Taise were people of few words but kind hearts and they and the range warmed Jeannie’s days. She loved the smell of fresh bread baking and felt sorry for those whose homes were not perfumed with its fragrance. Jeannie talked nonstop and yet her tone was light and gentle so that George felt its absence from the house when she was outside. He loved the evenings when the three of them sat around the blazing range’s open door and he listened to her talk about everything. Telling him what she saw, what she felt and hoped for. He knew her fear of the scary tree, how she loved the kittens in the outhouse and how tender her heart was. Occasionally when he had enough energy, at the end of the day, he would take down his fiddle and play old tunes and Jeannie clapped her hands in excitement and sang along. Her voice was gentle and yet she could hold a tune from a young age and had the ability to bring so much emotion to the old words they knew so well.
If George could create a picture of their life together he would pick those evenings when he walked with Jeannie from the barn with his daughter beside him into the warm kitchen to find the table laid with food and his sister waiting to serve the hot meal. The contrast between the cold cowshed and the cosy range and his family around him always raised his spirits and made him so grateful for what he had. Then the potato blight hit and the whole country felt real hunger. George was lucky to have his little greenhouse and his small vegetable plot with chickens. Their potato crop rotted in the field and their diet changed. All three lost weight but nothing compared to others. George shared his tomatoes with his three nearest neighbours and hoped that it made a difference. The rest they could not share as there was barely enough for the three of them. When Jeannie held his hand George could not stop himself examining her wrists. They were thin and she had lost that childish plumpness in her face. It seemed to George that as her features thinned she grew more and more like Mary and a terrible fear filled him. He and his sister did with less to try and boost her portion at mealtimes but Jeannie continued to lose weight no matter what they did. There was not more energy for singing, no more abundant baking, each thing was rationed to make it last.
They all felt that terrible days were upon them and all they could do was hang on as best they could. The suffering around them grew and famine was evident. Their neighbour Mrs Tiley died an active sixty-year-old and her cows cried their pain from the barn. George milked them, took them to her fields regularly and watered them enough to keep them alive. He explained that he couldn’t let them starve but her son, who eventually arrived from Dublin at the homestead weeks after the funeral, had been resentful as if George had stolen their family milk. He tried to explain that without milking the cows would have died, but George could tell his actions were resented.
Rumours spread about the farmer who stole milk from his neighbour in times of famine and in those days of hardship and anger the words gradually grew more toxic in the telling and spreading. George told himself it didn’t matter what people thought but it hurt more than he could say. Taise and Jeannie were furious that people could be so cruel, especially those neighbours who had known George for years. For Jeannie it felt as if the tree of sorrow had now manifested itself as an angry swarm of people around them. She felt the condemnation and the gossip and it sapped their spirits. Up to this point, however difficult things had been they had managed but this accusation broke George’s back. Already living on reduced food rations his health failed suddenly and dramatically. Pneumonia set in and strong George found himself bedridden with lungs full of liquid drowning him. Taise was frantic to help him and wrote to their brother Tom who lived in Scotland explaining the situation.
It took Tom a week to arrive but when he did he helped. Shocked at how ill George was Tom paid for a doctor to come from the nearby city. Immediately treatment was started as the doctor explained there was now a new antibiotic available in injection form. Taise and Jeannie prayed and hoped that George would pull through. Tom was a thin, short man efficient and quick in actions and words. Two brothers could not be more different: the slow quiet laid back large George and this small agile clever sibling. George began to rally and as Jeannie sat by his bedside a miracle seemed to have been granted. George was able to sit up and eat some soup at last. But his face was ashen and he had lost so much weight even his features looked different. Both Jeannie and Taise fretted and worried.
Neighbours commented that no good comes to those who do bad and George’s illness was felt to be a divine judgement of sorts. “Stealing milk from your dead neighbour!” There was a coldness and Jeannie overheard one toxic gossip say that the family had never had a good day since her birth, “Badness brings badness” she crowed. Tom found Jeannie crying beside the kittens in the old outhouse. He led her back into the house and explained “I think it better to focus on George than his reputation. You know what his character really is while his reputation is merely what others think he is”. For Jeannie this was deep beyond words and evident truth. It eased her heart and she looked afresh at this brother of George. She had been so angry at this cruel neighbour but Tom waisted no words on blame but answered falsehood with insight. She wrote his words down in her diary and would re-read their words many times. She might have been born unlucky in the eyes of others but she knew a different reality and she felt armed against all the blows both past and future that others might throw. Within a month George had recovered and was able to work once more. The famine ended and Tom returned to Scotland while George, Tasie and Jeannie luxuriated in having their range producing heat and all sorts of goodies from its oven. Jeannie knew they had all recovered when George took down his fiddle a month later and played while she sang. They smiled at each other and were grateful to have back again all that they thought they had lost.
The table is set, the tree decorated slowly by stiff, twisted fingers and even red cushions added to make a festive statement.
But no faces around the table, because of love.
The Christmas cards from loved ones hang in the hallway. These cardboard tokens of love from all are cherished. Each one re-read with news of the passing year.
But no conversations face-to-face, because of love
The box of children’s toys, from decades ago, remain packed away in the garage. Stored with a custodian’s devoted care. No squeals of great-grandchildren as they rediscover their parent’s playthings.
But no cheeks pressed against wrinkled faces, no hugs to give energy to old bones because of love.
Christmas music is not played this year. Familiar songs of shared times somehow hurt the spirit in this season of suffering.
No singing of old favourites with others because of love.
Presents are left on the doorstep, while their givers stand 2 meters away. Strange for those of so many, many decades to remember these rules, after a lifetime of love and hugs.
They are no longer allowed because of love.
Christmas dinner is delivered to the same doorstep with all the trimmings including dessert. Made with care, a real expression of love.
But they cannot hug those that share these gifts because of love.
Behind the glass boundaries, there is an aching void. Age already has taken so much away. Memories evaporate. Joints stiffen in pain and simple tasks become fraught. Bowls of pills become one’s daily fare. Breathing is constricted without inhalers. They must work harder just to cope but the years have taught them its lessons of endurance and steadfastness. These later years are ever tough and now the grim reaper has reached their field.
Yet habits ingrained of care and devotion continue because of love.
Even in these days of Covid-fear, the elderly still think of others. Relatives, friends and neighbours they hold them tenderly in their failing hearts.
Their hearts are lacerated by the suffering of refugees or children in far-off lands because of love.
Sometimes I think we are losing the best of us. A horrid cull of those who have amassed so much valuable knowledge and experience. In their place, an army of social media, internet intoxicated fools, who know everything not worth knowing.
"The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."
This plane is far too full. Given the many precautions of the airport with careful separation of passengers by means of floor signs, sealed off areas, seats taped over to enforce distancing and even the queueing policy and masks mandatory there was a sense of these people know how to make this Covid-safe space. But even in the airport, despite all appearances, there were obvious flaws. Every single hand cleansing dispenser was empty. I knew because I’m paranoid enough to insist on using them all. That should’ve given me a heads up that all was not what it seemed. However, it was only when I entered the departure lounge that everything went really pear-shaped. My gate was absolutely packed with the queue snaking right around the entire hall. People were trying to keep a safe distance but the room was just not big enough.
Then, we were jammed into the airport buses, on route to the plane, like sardines. Gone was any pretence of social distancing. We were packed far too tightly to permit even a bulky handbag to separate us. I consoled myself with the thought that the plane would be better. After all, the last time I flew on this route, in Covid times, there were only 16 people on the whole plane. I actually managed to stretch out and sleep across three vacant seats for the first time in years. Not this time! The plane rapidly filled to the brim. Obviously, being a Christmas flight, many were returning to Dublin for the festive period. I initially thought I would be the only fortunate person on the plane to have vacant seats on either side of me. Unfortunately, once the door of the plane closed there was a rapid reshuffling and a man took one of the empty seats in my row. I briefly contemplated the social etiquette of pointing out he should sit in the seat indicated by his ticket. However, since there was by now a massive reseating going on all over the plane I decided making a fuss was not in order. At least I didn’t have the chap two rows ahead beside me. He was wearing a mask so small it did not cover his mouth or nose, more of a chin strap. Who does he think he is fooling? Never mind I put my head back and try to relax. The stewards came around to take the food order and I politely declined. I have purchased an expensive FFP3 mask for this flight and I’m not risking removing it to either drink or eat. But darn it the people all around me are suddenly removing their masks so they can stuff their faces. Perhaps I should just relax after all I have had Covid already in May.
On that last trip, I had flown to Ireland from Malta and brought a packed lunch to eat on the plane during the journey. After the flight, I got onto the bus for the long journey to Belfast. On that particular last leg of the journey, I did not feel at all well. In fact, by the time it arrived in Belfast, outside the Europa hotel, I barely managed to stagger off the bus before vomiting on the pavement. This startled me as I rarely ever vomit. As I’ve mentioned before, even in the face of food poisoning (a dodgy Chinese family meal) all vomited but my dad and I. Then, when sailing with friends in rough weather, who were vomiting in unison either side of me, I managed to still enjoy my Mars bar. So, it was weird for me to feel so bad. I recovered once I had emptied my stomach. But within two weeks my mum and I both had Covid. Did I catch it on the plane? Somehow two weeks seems too long. Who knows, it could have been from a supermarket trip, getting petrol for the car, a neighbour who came too close to talk. I’ll never know but Covid was horrid. I had a mild but nasty period but my poor 87-year-old mum was eventually hospitalised and had to have oxygen. Thankfully she fought her way back to health despite her age, damaged lungs and asthma and came home safely. Mind you, both of us are convinced our brains are just not the same.
So, the reason I’m a bit paranoid on this plane is because I’m heading once again to be with my mum and I’m frankly terrified I’ll pick up the virus on route. The science is rather vague about how long antibodies and T cells remain in your system after you’ve been exposed to the virus and recovered. A few months was mentioned initially but then it seemed to depend on the severity of the original infection. Those who with the milder symptoms seem to lose their immunity faster. Then, there’s also vagueness about whether you yourself could be immune but still carry the virus to others. Just the possibility of that has generated a longing for 2m between me and all my neighbours on this flight. The younger generation seems much more relaxed about this disease. The young man behind me is chatting up a pretty girl in the seat beside him. They have that excited nervous first conversation, not exactly flirty, but each wanting to put their best foot forward. I’m wishing they would talk less as they’re too close to me.
There are only two elderly people on this flight and I can tell they are panicking. Both wear a visor and a mask to protect themselves, a smart move I should have thought of. When the old man had entered the plane he had started a heated argument with a young man with a crewcut seated in 1A. The elderly man was sure this upstart was sitting in his seat and argued loudly while hitting his boarding pass with a red pointed finger. The air steward intervened as the young man searched for his boarding pass on his phone. It took time for the truth to emerge as the elderly man behind his mask and visor couldn’t hear the steward very well. It turned out his boarding ticket was in row three not row one and he and his grey-haired wife were eventually persuaded to move on down the plane to their real seats. In the middle of the confusion, his wife took a severe cramp in her calf and had to stop and rub it while groaning in pain. I have real sympathy with this getting older. Along with more pain, it makes mistakes more likely. There really should be compassion for the elderly. Remembering to wear masks is tricky once you get past a certain age. You can easily forget.
In Malta, masks are mandatory everywhere outdoors and I have managed to get a block from home before remembering to pull a mask from my bag. Why is it so tricky? It’s because it’s foreign. The younger generation can adapt to change but older people have their life long habits engraved in brains of cement. When you periodically lose your train of thought, can’t find that word and miss place inanimate objects with depressing regularity then obeying brand new regulations is really tough. There is a video of a pensioner online, entering a supermarket and mistaking a drink dispenser for an alcoholic hand spray and pouring the brightly coloured sugar drink over both palms and then rubbing in the sticky stuff earnestly. One’s heart leaps in real sympathy. When they hand out fines for not wearing a mask I think old age should be a valid excuse!
Travelling had already become harder, even before Covid hit and was becoming very tiring. The distance covered by travellers in the airport has become longer, time standing in queues in steep stairways adds to the torture. The steps on a Ryanair aircraft are rickety and narrow with steps that are smaller than normal-sized feet. You end up coming down the steps on your heels with most of your foot projecting out mid-air. The whole structure moves like a rickety ladder and there’s no room to carry a suitcase by your side. Instead, you have to hold it in front of you pulling you forward dangerously over your toes. The fact that these ladders fold into the plane has to be convenient for the airlines but it’s a real liability for the elderly/pregnant/parent with small children.
Another couple in front of me is also courting across the aisle. I suspect young people are desperate to socialise. Planes are replacing nightclubs, pubs and other social venues. We older ones avoid such unnecessary exposure to germs. The young are excited to have these hours to get to know someone new at last. I cannot blame them. After all, they are young and feel invincible. Their immune systems are humming along nicely. Fighting off infections like crack troops. Ours are a withered bunch who have been whittled away by chronic conditions. Our systems often already need medication to keep our troops in line and in order. These elderly troops seem less vigilant and effective. I can remember getting deep cuts in my knees, when younger, and they healed so quickly. Healed and left no scars. Now marks remain for years and can even grow to form deep creases. Opportunistic growths appear in unlikely places and these old bodies view these invaders as bedfellows that just have to be endured. Decisions are sometimes made to rip such opportunistic growths off a shoulder or back but need to be weighed with the scar that will be left. Deciding to go for the scar or just ignore this new tenant have to be thought through. In fact, with time you are a bit embarrassed by your battlefield body. Once a nurse was worried by a huge bleeding sore on my forearm when I had decided this particular growth had outgrown my tolerance for it. On my next visit to a health clinic, a different nurse was horrified by the size of an unsightly growth on my wrist. As I made my way home I was trying to work out which had caused more distress in medical staff. To rip off or leave alone, difficult to decide?
The other change that age brings is that you are more sensitive to stress. You’d think with experience you’d be able to weather difficulties better. But the truth is with age you long for peace and quiet and toxic atmospheres corrode your wellbeing. Unexpected stress freaks you out. As do last-minute changes or having to rush because you are late. Responsibilities weigh more heavily. You sweat over grandchildren. Worry about their safety, fear you will fail them through inattention or carelessness. Knowing how tricky inanimate objects have become, like jar lids that won't open, you are freaked out by these active strong-willed characters. Their minds are like quicksilver and you feel like a heavy-footed cart horse. These bones don’t move so fast anymore and these old brains don’t process thoughts so well. There are benefits. Strangely emotions grow stronger with age. A beautiful landscape can move us to tears. As can a child’s smile or a sweet memory of an old friend.
Sleep changes. When you are young you can do without sleep all night. Function pretty well all the next day before collapsing the next night. When you are old, sleep becomes something you keep track off like a bank balance. Every morning you will enquire of everyone you live with if they slept well. It is a subject of interest to you as sleeping has become a hit or miss affair. No more total collapse into a blissful full night’s sleep. Instead, bladder trips pepper the night and often sleep does not follow these outings. Then the night shift of bedroom roof inspection begins. Tired of the horrible thoughts that bubble up in a sleep-deprived mind I generally get up and have breakfast at 3 am. With a full belly sometimes sleep comes as an unexpected desert. With such varied experiences at night no wonder the elderly have daily conversations about sleep. And that doesn’t even cover the dreams. In old age, you can find yourself back in stress-inducing situations that years ago you might have faced. But now, at this stage in life, the stress is hyper experienced and unbearable. You wake up traumatised by an experience you manage to wade through with difficulty in your prime but is now played in your dream as an awful sequel. When an older person asks you with genuine concern ‘Did you sleep well?” Know in what context they ask. They know what a bad night feels like, the emotions that rip open wounded hearts. So, out of love, they want to be reassured that your sleep was sound and blissful. It pleases them to know someone is getting a good night’s sleep.
My romantic neighbours behind me are on their second meal of this flight. They consume vast quantities of drink that we older travellers would never challenge our bladders with. These young people after hours of flight look remarkably fresh. It reminds me of two friends of mine who went into the local maternity ward at the same time and gave birth on the same day. Amused by the synchronicity of this event, photos were taken of the two friends with their new babies on the ward. The young mother in her 20’s looked like a model in her nightgown with a freshly flushed complexion glowing with happiness. My 43-year-old older friend held her baby like an anchor that was too heavy to hold and looked like she had been through 20 rounds of a vicious heavyweight boxing match. Even her hair seemed freaked out. The contrast between the two mothers in the photograph had us all roaring in laughter and sympathy. As I look around this plane I can see a similar phenomenon. The young look exactly as they did when they entered this plane. We oldies look like we’ve been dragged through bushes backwards for several nights. Eyelids are closing independently of their owners and mouths seem to be pulled by gravity into grimaces that speak of back pain that has reached intolerable proportions. Old bones shift uncomfortably and long to be flat on orthopaedic mattresses. Cramps come and go in unlikely places and vague indigestion has begun to brew. Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated. The noisy happy flirtatious chat of excited young people has become like dentist drills in our heads. We admire their energy and commitment but long for our own oblivion in a deep sleep. Our bank balances are running extremely low and being polite to others takes incredible effort. Excited chitchat from youngsters is like fingernails on the blackboard.
But we must endure. That’s what age teaches you. Patience with yourself and others, the flaws, the worries and the pains. It’s a hard-won quality and it makes you wish for all onboard this plane a safe journey and a good night sleep at the end of it. Because isn’t that what we all long for at the end of these lives of ours.
