Where We're All Headed...

When we're old - I mean, when our generation is old - what will we be like? Will we wear pink rinse in our hair and opaque tights on our spindly legs? Will we trundle to the shops with a trolley and reminisce about the good old days, when young men worked hard and young women behaved like women. Will we speak loudly, walk slowly, shop frugally, think deeply and act elderly?

Or, will we listen to rock music, stay up 'til 2am, and prowl the streets looking for a fight? Picture the scene; an intimidating group of adolescents lingers around the co-op at night, spitting on the pavement and hurling fistfuls and mouthfuls of abuse at every passer-by. The girls strut around, pouting through a mask of 3-inch-thick make up. The boys roll back and forth on their bikes, caps tilted on an angle and hands firmly in pockets. What on earth will these people be like when they are elderly. I can't imagine them as sweet little ladies and gents. Can you?

What I mean is, do the floral wallpapers, lace curtains and funny habits come as standard when you reach 'old age' or do old people live like that because that's what they grew up with? If the latter is the case then I may well be an 80yr old with postcards plastered on my walls, a stash of chocolate in a drawer and a never ending supply of music. I'll spend some days moping in bed, wishing i'd 'done it differently' and other days wearing an endless grin and relishing in fresh air, new faces and every little thing. I'll pull funny faces and do silly voices. I'll watch movies in marathons accompanied only by some good friends and a bottle of wine.

There's a poem about this. I just remembered it. It's by Jenny Joseph. It goes like this.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Wonderful. Case closed.