AGE before BEAUTY

Louis Gatt is far from nostalgic for his lost youth.

Age before beauty eh? Oh yes, it’s eminently preferable to callow youth, however beautiful the teens and 20s may seem to be. Not that I personally ever claim to have been anything like gorgeous. Handsome I ain’t, nor ever have been. In fact, I have it on very good authority (my mother’s) that when I arrived in the world and was revealed to my father for the first time, he apparently exclaimed: “Good God. It looks just like (expletive deleted) Mussolini!”

And I’m afraid it’s been downhill all the way from there. So no, as I crawl through my 60s, I don’t reminisce soulfully about my lost looks; I never had any to lose. It may well have something to do with the fact that I actually love being old. Well not too old, I have to admit I’m not looking forward to the unpleasant bits… you know, dementia and other slippery slopes that lead inexorably to the Adolorata. But even stuff like dementia needn’t be all bad.

I had an aunt, Vicky, who lived into her mid 90s and, for the last years of her life, which she spent in a retirement home, she was totally away ‘with the fairies’. And, although I can’t prove it, she seemed to enjoy every minute of it.

She lived in a little world of her own and reality never, if ever intruded. A cousin of mine relates the story of one occasion when Aunty Vicky went to lunch with my cousin and her husband. After the meal the thin mints were circulated. Aunty Vicky immediately said: “Ooh Daddy absolutely loves these. Do you mind if I take a few back for him?” A laudable gesture right? Well yes it would have been, had ‘Daddy’, our

grandfather, not have shuffled off his mortal coil more than 40 previously. Aunty did take a few mints back to her carehome. I often wonder who she gave them to.

And when I might get a bit maudling about my, so called, lost youth I just have to remind myself about all the advantages of being a trainee geriatric. For a start, I no longer feel any peer pressure; I don’t have to have the very latest mobile phone or over-priced trainers. My suit – just one – only ever comes out of the wardrobe on formal occasions, I have no idea who or what music tops the charts anymore, and I am sure that whoever it is they won’t be a patch on the bands plying their trade 50 odd years ago.

A very, very old lady once said to me: “I love being old, ’cos nothing that hasn’t already touched me can touch me now. All I’ve got to do now is die. And I’m in no hurry right now.” She lived to be 101, bless her.

No, I’m not expecting to attain three figures. If I stick to the plot, the men in my family usually slip off the shovel in their mid eighties. It’s the women that go on forever.

An article of this nature is bound to be somewhat anecdotal, so here are a couple on the subject of ageing gracefully and not so gracefully.

I used to know an old lady who lived in Sliema, and had the most serene attitude to ageing of anyone I’ve ever known. Her daughter (no spring chicken herself) was a very good tennis player and could be seen doing her Navratilova impression at the Marsa Club most weekends. She used to take her mother with her and the old lady would sit at the side of the court watching the tennis, knitting and chatting to friends. On one occasion her daughter won a singles competition, after which she received the trophy, showered and drove home, in great excitement.

Only as she reached her house did she realise she had left her mother behind, still courtside. She jumped back into the car and returned, wondering what had happened to Mum. She discovered her, still sitting where she had left her, all alone, as dusk was settling. She began to apologise profusely for forgetting to take her mother home. The old lady, who incidentally was completely unfazed at being left alone and unattended, cut in with: “It wasn’t a problem dearie, I knew you’d come for me eventually.” That sort of stoicism only comes with age.

On the other hand, I had a very close relative who aged very badly. Just after he retired he and I were taking a beer, again in the Marsa Club as it happens, when he announced: “That’s it, I’m retired – and that means I’m not going to do another thing, daqsekk! And he meant it. He had been a very keen golfer and as a retirement gift his staff had given him a spanking new set of very expensive clubs. I think he may have used them twice, before complaining that he had hurt his foot and was giving up golf.

He turned, in retirement, into a cantankerous, b****yminded old so-and-so who did absolutely no exercise. Actually his wife once said to me: “The only exercise he ever gets is that of his thumb on the TV remote.” And that was true.

When I was a young man I just simply could not conceive of a time when I would not want to exercise and do the stuff I did back then. I had fondly assumed that in my dotage I would still be able to play football and boogie all night long at the disco. But, do you know, I don’t actually miss doing all that physical stuff. I have a fairly short daily early morning stretching session and I do enjoy walking… when I can be bothered to get off my butt to do so.

Passing into my 60s I was, like every other person who reaches retirement age… officially old. The trouble is, I still think like a 20 year old and, sometimes, still behave like one… an immature one. Well so what? If I’m going to become a decrepit old git I will do so on my terms.

So yes, so far I am truly enjoying every minute of being ancient and long may I continue to do so.