Look at all the lonely people…

It used to happen far more, Mrs B tells me, than it does today. The subject arose after I saw a young and clearly discomfited young woman, with a belly the size of a harvest moon, sitting silently while a middle-aged woman (whom she clearly didn’t know) stroked the evidence of her advanced pregnancy, simultaneously asking for details. This, it seemed to me, fell little short of an intrusive assault. Mrs B concurred, admitting that she had some years ago been subjected to similarly embarrassing (though apparently well-meant) intrusions. The focus now seems to have moved to the patting and stroking of head and neck of any and every dog that appears in the street, regardless of the concerns of the dog’s owner. Such ruffling tends to be accompanied by the kind of gooey talk so often aimed at young babies. I suppose these practices spring from a degree of loneliness. It is, after all, easier to make friendly overtures to a dumb brute than to the dumb brute’s unknown owner. Every day, walking through County Square, I see the same old faces – or should I say elderly faces – of people sitting on the benches, often gazing vacantly into space. Sometimes I sit and strike up a conversation. It often turns out that the people to whom I talk live alone and sometimes receive no visitors from one week’s end to the next. Children? Often moved away or, sometimes, sadly killed as a consequence of Mr Blair’s war in the Middle East (I seriously wonder how it is that Mr Blair seems to be once again welcomed into our political arena). So-called “social media” which, we hear, too often in reality turns out to be anti-social media has, I suspect, a degree of responsibility for these elderly people’s loneliness. People find it so much easier to send text messages than to get off their backsides and actually visit others in the flesh, face to face. Sadly, there appear to be few social clubs and activities aimed at the elderly. I spent half an hour looking on the internet for such things in Ashford. There are plenty in Canterbury, Maidstone, Herne Bay and other areas but almost nothing appeared for Ashford.

‘It is, after all, easier to make friendly overtures to a dumb brute than to the dumb brute’s unknown owner’