So old I can remember the horror of the 1972 pensioner time-bomb. At least I think I can...

Click to follow
The Independent Online

Oh, the election, and blah blah this, and blah blah that, and blah blah the other, and tax and police and health and those poor pensioners who are about to explode - bang! - because there is a time-bomb ticking away and illegal immigrants in your soup and down your sock and behind the curtains and ... actually, hold up. That pensioner time-bomb thing. That's scary, isn't it?

Oh, the election, and blah blah this, and blah blah that, and blah blah the other, and tax and police and health and those poor pensioners who are about to explode - bang! - because there is a time-bomb ticking away and illegal immigrants in your soup and down your sock and behind the curtains and ... actually, hold up. That pensioner time-bomb thing. That's scary, isn't it?

Yes, it is. Indeed, I am old enough to remember when the last pensioner bomb went off (1972, I think it was) and the absolute devastation that caused. I, for one, got four old people in the eye, plus nearly had my knee taken out by a tartan shopping basket on wheels with a single lamb chop and an onion in it.

As for Crouch End clocktower, if you inspect the brickwork you will see the dents and chips caused by shards of reading glasses and chunks of slip-on beige shoes from Clarks. There is also a corn plaster still hanging off one of the clock's hands.

So, a bomb involving pensioners is a hideous prospect, something to be truly scared about. I know someone who received a blow to the back of his head by an artificial hip and, all these years later, he has yet to fully recover. His head is still full of terrible, screechy, scratchy noises, he says. He is going back to the doctor next week just to check he hasn't got an asylum-seeker living in his ear. Whoa, Michael Howard, tone it down and all that but, still, you never know. And if the asylum seeker is always rearranging his furniture , that might explain all.

Poldark fancies

I don't think I'd have been quite so worried about pensioners a few years ago, but lately I've sensed what I've been trying to not sense for so long: I'm getting old. I am old. I bit into a toffee Revel the other day and half a tooth shot out. Sexy, that. Very sexy. Good job I wasn't wearing frilly baby-dolls or I'd have been just too irresistible. It might, even, have proved too much for my partner, who'd have insisted we do it there and then, on the very kitchen table where the tooth had landed, with such a seductive clatter and spin. Actually, I cried. Quite a lot. They say maturity comes with age. But the way I look at it, age sometimes happens along all by itself. As it is, I still fantasise, as I did at 14, about Captain Poldark choosing me over both Cousin Elizabeth and Demelza and not regretting it, even though I now think, with the tooth situation being what it is, it's probably best if I keep my mouth firmly shut at all times. So, no blow-jobs then. I think the Captain will understand. And I'll make up for it by charging fiercely at that nasty George Warleggan with my gums at all times.

At least when I was young my bladder was my friend. Now, my bladder no longer takes me through the night. Up we get: once, twice, three times. This is an act of astonishing betrayal, considering how I have treated my bladder over the years. I have taken it with me every where, paid it's way, put it up in some of the world's best hotels. I have certainly had it out with my bladder. "Bladder", I have said, "Is this any way to treat me after all these years?" Bladder laughed, then said it would shortly be letting out a little bit of pee into my pants whenever I sneeze. I have since been avoiding anyone with a cold. And pepper.

Yup, getting old is crap. And my memory is shot to bits already. I put the oven on but forget to put the dinner in it. I put the dinner in the oven but forget to turn the oven on. You may even say our household is currently experiencing a revival of The Cold Supper. I once put Nescafé in our coffee filter machine and then wondered where all the grounds had gone. A miracle! A miracle! Quick, call The Hornsey Journal, as there has been a miracle in Crouch End! I've yet to spot the face of Jesus in a turnip, but suspect that is next. Maybe I've spotted it already but just can't remember.

Burberry Heaven

I am too old. Too old for everything. I'm a missing-toothed pee-sneezing old hag. I am out of touch with today's young people. I took my son to Thorpe Park over Easter where I discovered I could no longer stomach big rides. I could only do the tea-cups. And even after those I had to like lie flat out on a bench for several hours afterwards. At one point, a couple of teenage boys, all faux Burberry and Reebok, as Thorpe Park is Chav Heaven, perched on the end of the bench.

"Effing hell," said one to the other. "that Colossus was well spasticating!" Spasticating? Is this young people's talk? "Excuse me," I said, "if you are going to spasticate, could you do it elsewhere?" They buggered off. And then a passer-by threw me £1. I don't like Thorpe Park.

Anyway, this is why I'm worried about the pensioners and time bombs. You'll notice, though, that I haven't mentioned false teeth or dentures even the once. This is because they just don't seem funny anymore.

d.ross@independent.co.uk

Comments