In a way, I’m glad I don’t have proper Internet access. The BBC radio news yesterday evening was apocalyptically depressing. How much global death, disaster, and destruction is it possible to fit into one broadcast? Pakistan, Mexico, South-East Asia. The latest Economist—a journal not normally known for “quagmire” rhetoric—welcomes the Iraqi people’s recent vote on their constitution by making Iraq sound like ‘Nam. Brum is burning. And, er, Villa managed to lose at home to Wigan.
Meanwhile, I am sitting in a sleazy Internet Caff in Hove. For you, dear reader, I have been walking the mean streets of Retirement-Ville. It’s ugly. On a seafront wall I found evidence of a Saturday night of Grey Power excess: an empty screwtop miniature of Macon-Villages Chardonnay, tucked carefully upright against the trimmed privet. At every step I wonder if a former colonel will leap out from an alleyway, smash me over the head with his shooting stick, and steal my wallet to feed his Sanatogen habit. The local bowls club is having a recruitment drive and is draped with a banner declaring “ALL AGES WELCOME”. Who dares me to join up?
Have you been reading J G Ballard? Because you’re channelling his thought processes.
I live in a seaside town full of pensioners. It’s a bit deflating. Constant reminders of mortality, even on the benches lining the catwalk beside the sea: they’re mostly in memory of someone. And the shops have that ending up air about them: wool emporiums, cheap clothing, little teashops where the poorest (Zimbabwean) pensioners buy anchovy toast and a cup of tea for a small sum.
I thought of writing a novel about a detective investigating a geriatric serial killer in a seaside town much like this one, but I think it’s been done.
Thank the goddess I work in the city among the pavement cafes and the Francophone African stallholders.
What are all these old people going to do when the sea level rises and their Axminsters are under 2 metres of water? They’re going to wish they’d retired to Northampton.
Bowls is a path to eternal youth these days. The recent world champions, such as Paul Foster and Alex Marshall, have all been very fresh-faced. My Mum thinks they’re nice young men. David Gourlay also has style. They all make me look decrepit. I think it’s the warm-ups they do to stay supple.
Never underestimate elderly bowlers – they have usually done all the other stuff, got tired of it and decided that bowling meets the same need but requires slightly less effort.
I quite like living is a seaside town just along the coast from you, which asa fair number of elderly people. I still get called ‘young man’ and ‘son’,which I’m now old enough to appreciate now I’m in my mid 40s.
Jesus Christ, how often do you people need telling?
First rule of bowls club, you don’t talk about bowls club.