Rutland columnist Allan Grey feels he’s getting old…
Every now and then it becomes patently obvious that you are getting old, finding yourself exasperated with the inanities and idiocy of the nanny society you see and hear around you, writes Rutland columnist Allan Grey. Yes, it’s life Jim, but not as us oldies know it.
Take this hot and sunny Sunday morning, summer has arrived, and guess what, it’s a little bit hot, it’s going to be hotter still tomorrow and the day after, just for a couple of days before we’re back to usual. So, red alert, we have to take great care of ourselves in the heat, amazingly, just as we have been doing relatively successfully for millennia, well a bit over 70 years in my case.
On morning TV, two ‘experts’ have been carefully corralled onto the sofa and are saying, with angst etched heavily across their faces, that maybe we should stay indoors during daylight hours, draw the curtains, drink gallons of water, limit our caffeine intake and under no circumstances imbibe the slightest drop of alcohol. Maybe take to our bed for the day, but remember to take the duvet off, don’t wear our favourite woolly jim jams, we might find they make us sweat, sorry, perspire, and a damp flannel on our forehead always works well. Gosh who knew?
If by any chance we do need to go out into the sweltering, highly dangerous sunshine, maybe to cut the grass, wash the car, walk to the pub, for a soft drink, or buy some food, making sure it’s only fruit and vegetables that contain water, make sure we cover ourselves in a thick layer of sun cream, minimum factor 50, oh, and be sure to wear light coloured clothing, leave the fleecy, the down jacket and the beany at home. We’re told how to put the cream onto our hand and rub in vigorously with our index finger and middle finger, re-applying every 15 minutes just to be on the safe side. What do these muppets think we’re going to do with the boffing sun cream? Spread it on our toast? OK, rant over, relax.
The upside to all of this is that when winter inevitably arrives, I am hoping we will all then be advised that we don’t have to cut the grass, that we don’t have to eat loads of boring fruit and vegetables, especially cabbage, and are encouraged to drink loads of coffee and of course visit the pub every day and drink as much alcohol as possible, until spring is sprung, when updated advice will be published.
Another sign of the ageing process is when you are invited out for a meal at an event, and you have to select which main course and which dessert you would like three months hence. When finally seated at the dining table at the event, can you remember what you had chosen on that freezing cold day way back, what you’d fancy on this very hot day, nah, no chance. Three months back I selected the summer sea bass with new jersey potatoes and stem broccoli, not the chicken supreme and chunky chips, which I really craved last Thursday, hungry from having roamed around Luffenham Heath golf course for hours photographing a golf day for retired colleagues from the company we all used to work for.
Seated around the table and not remembering what I had chosen, I didn’t put my hand up quick enough when asked, “who’s ordered the chicken?”. If I had, I could have been tucking in before someone else who had ordered the chicken was told: “Soz, we just have one seabass left.” Sadly I was left with the last seabass and the stem broccoli. I made up for it however, with the dessert, leaving nothing to chance when asked: “Who’s ordered the Manton strawberries, meringue and cream?” My hand shot up and I was tucking in tout suite, no-one was going to prevent me scoffing the lot very quickly, just in case I’d ordered the chocolate semolina.
As the golf day photographer, my job is to be in the right place at the right time around the 18 holes, endeavouring to capture the dramatic drives, the champion chips and the perfect putts of the elderly Rory McIlroy wannabes, trying to freeze frame their shot complete with the ball on it’s travels to the green or the hole.
However, my favourite shots are those of players doing their darndest to get out of the massive bunkers. I’m actually delighted when a shot ends up in the sand, unlike the golfers who are gutted not to have reached the green. I can get some great shots as the stroke is made, the sand flies everywhere and the ball hits the rim of the bunker, rolling sedately back down into the sand, ready for the second attempt, I just have to remember not to look so pleased.
And finally on VE Day Celebration Sunday, a morning visit to three of my granddaughters. The 11-year-old is parading with her guide troop from the Castle to the service at All Saints church. Their Mum is going too, but one of the nine-year-old identical twins is not: “I’m not a Christian, God didn’t make us, we came from monkeys,” she maintains when I ask if she’s going.
The other twin who maintains she is a Christian goes to the service with her Mum, but I’m told, having been seriously nonplussed by the whole shebang declares as they leave the church that she’s changed her mind and is no longer a Christian, isn’t it great getting old?