I somehow feel that taking the cautious approach may ironically not pay off in the end. How disappointing it would beto live a life of rigid self-denial, constantly worrying about healthy lifestyle, diet and exercise regimes, only to be struck down by some unexpected disease in mid-life. It certainly has happened to various friends of ours, while others we know who lead dissipated lifestyles soldier on well into their eighties. I hear the words âmoderation in all thingsâ ringing in my ears, but my natural inclination is to be excessive. To push the boundaries. Iâm not advocating a life of total self-indulgence, but I cannot tolerate the prospect of total self-denial.
Itâs all relative. When I mention my fears about ageing to my mother-in-law she has every right, but doesnât, to laugh out loud at me. As do the women in their sixties and seventies I regularly meet at talks and book events. From their perspective Iâm still young and shouldnât waste my time dwelling on old age â just as teenagers never for a moment contemplate the prospect of turning thirty-five. But fifty is the threshold. Itâs the point at which we first start to focus on ageing and mortality, to look back and reflect on our life and to ponder the prospect of the future.
In France, many of my friends are over seventy because the tranquil rural paradise of the southwest attracts lots of retirees. My friends Jock the retired journalist, Claude the English ex-photographer, and Margaret Barwick the garden designer and author are just some of those in our circle who are twenty years or more older than me. But they donât behave as though they are twenty years older, with their high spirits and a full-on approach to life that belies their years.
Jockâs method of dealing with ageing is to ignore it completely. Itâs not a bad philosophy in many ways. Denial is a great form of self-protection and it means that Jock simply dismisses the signs and signals that tell him it might be time toslow down, and he continues to behave like a man half his age. Most of us find it hard to keep up with Jockâs predilection for socialising. Itâs not uncommon for him to throw his enthusiasm into a restaurant lunch that lasts from noon until well after four in the afternoon, then rest for an hour or so before going down to the bar or the Plan dâEau to have a glass of Perrier for the purposes of rehydration before an evening of more eating and drinking and general merriment. He bowls up to all the weekly fresh produce markets in the local villages, loves to fossick for old bits of china and glasses at the antique and flea markets that are the highlight of the summer, and throws at least one four-course dinner party a week. Heâs an exhausting person to be around.
Apart from his wheeze, the legacy of a lifetime of asthma, he seems in robust health most of the time. In more recent years he has, however, developed the alarming habit of dismissing any indications of ill health â such as a cold that may have turned into bronchitis or, worse, pneumonia â by always saying, when asked by concerned friends, that heâs feeling a lot better than he did the day before. This is usually just hours before he admits that he is actually feeling quite distressed and unable to breathe, which means that he must be rushed to the doctor or hospital for emergency assistance. In other words, he waits in the hope of a miracle recovery until he is virtually on deathâs door before acknowledging that he could be quite ill.
While this positive and hearty attitude is preferable to being a neurotic hypochondriac, it can be quite unnerving for those asked to assist in a crisis. Claude recounts with some horror driving Jock to Prayssac to see the long-suffering local doctor â then immediately, at speed, driving to the hospital in Cahors with Jock literally gasping for each breath in the passenger seat.Claude was
Itâs all relative. When I mention my fears about ageing to my mother-in-law she has every right, but doesnât, to laugh out loud at me. As do the women in their sixties and seventies I regularly meet at talks and book events. From their perspective Iâm still young and shouldnât waste my time dwelling on old age â just as teenagers never for a moment contemplate the prospect of turning thirty-five. But fifty is the threshold. Itâs the point at which we first start to focus on ageing and mortality, to look back and reflect on our life and to ponder the prospect of the future.
In France, many of my friends are over seventy because the tranquil rural paradise of the southwest attracts lots of retirees. My friends Jock the retired journalist, Claude the English ex-photographer, and Margaret Barwick the garden designer and author are just some of those in our circle who are twenty years or more older than me. But they donât behave as though they are twenty years older, with their high spirits and a full-on approach to life that belies their years.
Jockâs method of dealing with ageing is to ignore it completely. Itâs not a bad philosophy in many ways. Denial is a great form of self-protection and it means that Jock simply dismisses the signs and signals that tell him it might be time toslow down, and he continues to behave like a man half his age. Most of us find it hard to keep up with Jockâs predilection for socialising. Itâs not uncommon for him to throw his enthusiasm into a restaurant lunch that lasts from noon until well after four in the afternoon, then rest for an hour or so before going down to the bar or the Plan dâEau to have a glass of Perrier for the purposes of rehydration before an evening of more eating and drinking and general merriment. He bowls up to all the weekly fresh produce markets in the local villages, loves to fossick for old bits of china and glasses at the antique and flea markets that are the highlight of the summer, and throws at least one four-course dinner party a week. Heâs an exhausting person to be around.
Apart from his wheeze, the legacy of a lifetime of asthma, he seems in robust health most of the time. In more recent years he has, however, developed the alarming habit of dismissing any indications of ill health â such as a cold that may have turned into bronchitis or, worse, pneumonia â by always saying, when asked by concerned friends, that heâs feeling a lot better than he did the day before. This is usually just hours before he admits that he is actually feeling quite distressed and unable to breathe, which means that he must be rushed to the doctor or hospital for emergency assistance. In other words, he waits in the hope of a miracle recovery until he is virtually on deathâs door before acknowledging that he could be quite ill.
While this positive and hearty attitude is preferable to being a neurotic hypochondriac, it can be quite unnerving for those asked to assist in a crisis. Claude recounts with some horror driving Jock to Prayssac to see the long-suffering local doctor â then immediately, at speed, driving to the hospital in Cahors with Jock literally gasping for each breath in the passenger seat.Claude was
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