Paxman, don’t moan – enjoy being a grand old warrior
To my surprise, I am the same age as Jeremy Paxman. Surprise because iconic figures always feel older, and inwardly we midmarket freelancers are forever 27: going for the next gig, resigned to the next knock-back. But like Paxo I am 66, and appreciate his entertaining blast of fury at Mature Times. He bewails “incontinence, idiocy, peevish valetudinarianism”, shudders at ads for surgical stockings and hearing aids and grunts that “whiffy vested interests” should not vote since they – we – will be dead soon.
He has picked the wrong publication: Saga is full of septuagenarian go-getters from Dame Judi Dench to Mick Jagger. The Oldie is even better, having inherited from its founder Richard Ingrams a fabulous sense of superannuated mischief and merry cynicism about youth cults.
But the horror of ageing can strike sometimes in the mid-sixties. The body starts to grumble: stiffness in the knees; stronger reading-glasses; a resentful reluctance to stay long in Downward Dog during determined yoga sessions; a face in the mirror dismayingly like one’s parents’. Toenails annoyingly curl over and grow in so you need a podiatrist (so ageing, darling: call it a medi-pedi).
And for a man like Paxo, who voluntarily walked away from an engrossing job on Newsnight, there is the terror of retirement. Of having too much time, and not morphing into a Dimbleby or Mary Berry chuntering on forever like a Duracell ad.
Even media freelances suffer this dread when a contract ends, fearing that this time it isn’t just a blip. One friend in her late sixties mourned a few years ago: “I think I have accidentally retired.” Two books later, she’s still beavering away. GPs who retired exhausted but affluent may seem strangely keen on locum jobs. Retired desk-jockeys take on voluntary work and govern schools. The instinct to be part of the flow of life does not die instantly. Once some sensible broadcaster finds a really juicy, violent, aggressive new role for Paxo, his revulsion about ageing will fade.
For the blessings are there to be counted, and not just for the lucky ones with a paid-off mortgage, reasonable pension and financially independent children. The very fact of passing 65 brings liberation.
If working, you know you’re lucky to be doing so, yet may well feel freer than ever to turn down stupid tasks, tell the management they’re daft and stick up for younger colleagues who are bullied or undervalued. In midlife, with a mortgage and young family, taking risks is unnerving. Besides, you aren’t getting enough sleep to trust your judgment.
After 60 things clarify and you only suffer fools if, in your benevolence, you choose to. Indeed, there is more instinct towards that benevolence than is generally spoken of. Curmudgeons are a minority, not least because the steady trickle of funerals you attend brings an inchoate desire to be remembered fondly yourself.
You are also freed from any desire to be cool or ontrend. Historically you’re in extra time: if it feels like a downward slide, take your hands off the edges and whee! enjoy the ride. As for the physical disadvantages, channel Bette Davis: “Old age is not for sissies.” Let enfeebled mid-lifers and neurotic youth fret about their “wellness”. We are the grand old warriors. We don’t weaken.