Proof of mental decay

I have four pairs of specs on the go. One pair packed into a case and carried in my shoulder bag (see pic), one on the desk in my mancave, one on a small side-table in the living room within reach of the couch and one on the bedside chest of drawers. I am thus prepared for any reading task – anywhere - this side of a nuclear attack. How prescient.

Alas, these four pairs of specs also measure my mental decay as times slips by. For instance: I am peering at the monitor through the mancave specs, writing a blogpost, when I am reminded to add “Satsumas” to the shopping-reminder chalkboard in the  kitchen. Forgetting to remove my mancave specs I shuffle downstairs, do the business with the chalk, pass through the living-room and notice VR has finished reading this week’s New Statesman. I sit down and read an improving article on the perils of Brexit; this takes ten minutes.

I glance at my watch and realise it is time to prepare VR’s two slices of Ryvita spread with Philadelphia cream cheese and loaded with defrosted prawns in salad cream, a dozen to each slice. I don’t need my specs for such haute cuisine and I remove them from my nose to put them on the side-table. Only to find a pair of specs already there. The ones I took from my nose belong upstairs in the mancave.

Once I would have indolently left the two pairs on the side-table. Experience scrabbling round the house on an angry specs hunt has taught me I must – Now! At this moment! – go upstairs for the sole reason of returning the mancave specs to their rightful location. But not on the Stannah stair-lift. Such ascents qualify as exercise.

Beyond expectations?

How did I make it to 88? Not that 88 is an unusual age these days, as The Guardian’s obituary pages confirm.

More particularly, how might I reply to that question without appearing insufferably smug? Without implying my life-style must have been superior to those who cocked their toes in their sixties.

One contributory factor was I never smoked. But I can’t take credit for that. Chronic bronchitis in youth meant I was never tempted. In contra-distinction I was tempted – and gave into – drinking. With enthusiasm.

In my teens I cycle-toured but only to get from A to B. Rarely to go round in circles admiring the scenery. Quickly I swapped pedals for an engine. Rock-climbing turned out to be more damaging than healthy. Ski-ing was restricted to two weeks a year.

In my early fifties, and for six months, I jogged for 45 minutes before setting out for work: a first tailored gesture towards my otherwise neglected body. In retirement, on the threshold of becoming elderly, I swam rigorously, regularly and lengthily; this genuinely benefited my lungs.

But there’s a tendency to relate general decay only to muscular matters. I’m more inclined to believe my advanced age is the result of how I treated my brain. Journalism consisted of doing things I would have done anyway, without the rewards of a salary. Fact is my retirement days much resemble my days as a magazine editor. I write and strive to write better. Taxing my imagination – in order to come up with something original – can be at least as tiring as jogging. And being tired is evidence of work done. 

Might learning to sing have added extra months, perhaps even years? Dunno. Is exhilaration good for you? It seemed like it.

Unhealthy stuff

Weeded but worrying.  The three gravel beds 

Had the weekly Skype session last Sunday - VR, me, our two daughters. I opened with a provocative invitation: “Yesterday, and the day before, I engaged in an activity you’d least expect of me. Guess what.”

One daughter (I’ve forgotten which) said, “You went to Dunelm.” Dunelm sells soft goods and I’ve posted about it before. Entering the Hereford branch is like diving into a swimming pool filled with cotton wool. Or taking a triple dose of Nightnurse, an over-the-counter pill for those who can’t sleep. I begin to yawn uncontrollably and this does not end until I pass through Dunelm’s exit.

In fact, as I key the above words, I start yawning.

Everybody laughed; they know my little ways. But the actual activity was even more atypical. I weeded the three gravel beds that form the heart of our back garden.

Weeding is gardening and I avoid gardening. But not suicidally. If I notice a problem which will get horribly worse (Not that I’m good at this.) I do the necessary. Albeit, very reluctantly.

But I’m not good at bending. And weeds – hoe-ed from the gravel – need picking up. Which means bending. One solution is to use a stool and pick from a sitting position.

But notice “gravel beds”. Have you ever tried to move a stool you’re occupying with its lower supports sunk into the gravel? Theoretically it’s impossible – you cannot lift yourself. But you can slightly extend your knees, briefly reducing the load, and shuffle the stool six inches. Farcical to watch, cumulatively wearying and unforgivably inefficient.

But there is a worrying sequel. Work done, I found myself returning to the gravel and finding solace in its weedlessness. Purged, as after a visit to the toilet. This cannot be healthy for the mind.

RIP? Nah!

I don't have photos of him; The Trafalgar suffices

My closest friend has just died of long covid. Closest in spirit if not geographically; he lived in London, 150 miles away. A journalist, a novelist, we shared many interests and some of the same political views.

As with past deaths my reaction always centres on language: I must not betray him with funeral-home vocabulary or badly-worn phrases that might suggest I haven’t bothered to think about the loss. If I mention that cumbersome word “condolences” it must only be to condemn it.

In fact our friendship went through different phases and the best bits came at the end. Rather similar to my relationship with Joe Hyam (Plutarch in the blogosphere). From time to time I drove from Hereford to Lewisham where he lived, we taxi-ed to Greenwich of meridian fame, lunched in a wine vault, walked past the Cutty Sark (a beached tea clipper), sat in a bow-window niche overlooking the Thames in The Trafalgar, best pub in London, drank five pints of draught beer over about six hours. And talked.

There were other things to treasure (he published my four books) but those talks stand out. Made me realise how rare real conversation is. The giving and taking of information, equably and without insistence. The exploration of familiar subjects and the unearthing of new ones. An eagerness to contribute tempered by the rule of not interrupting. Science, politics, books, malicious gossip, introspection, and the laughing acceptance of weak bladders in old age.

At its best conversation shares something with good music. Structure, a continuing flow, sharp revelations.

One other thing. It was he, with his wife Caroline, that suggested we all visited the Hay Festival. Stimulation over ten years.

He was Pat Coyne. Don’t rest in peace, Pat; it sounds too passive. Keep talking.