Terence Blacker

an armchair, reminiscing mistily, the fiction kicks in. Only a member of the D-Day generation could have behaved as Bernard Jordan did, runs the story. They don’t make ’em like that any more.

The cringe is in evidence when public figures — Tony Benn, for example — reach their 80s and still contribute to the debates of the day. The fact that they can still develop ideas in their old heads, and articulate them without losing their thread, becomes a matter of wonder.

At the same time, our culture has become anxious about growing old. The best, most lethal way to criticise a politician who has reached some grand age — 60, say — is to be openly and cheerfully ageist.

‘‘Doddery Old Vince Fails to Grasp Royal Mail Basics’’, read one headline on a popular Westminster blog last month. Kenneth Clarke and, famously, Menzies Campbell have endured similar treatment in the recent past. Such is the inbuilt fear of ageing in our culture that few political figures can hope to survive once the ‘‘doddery’’ tag has been attached.

And for all the tearful affection showed to Mr Jordan and other old soldiers, society’s treatment of the aged is often disgraceful. Those big words bandied about during the D-Day anniversary — gratitude, respect, admiration — tend to be forgotten when it comes to everyday care in hospitals or in homes, or to government support that would take some of the anxiety and downright poverty out of old age.

The old are patronised in stories like that of Bernard Jordan. They become an excuse for the kind of easy emotion that is the common currency of social media and the press; a wrinkly version of the cat who rescues a toddler, or the brave, mortally ill kiddie in hospital.

That would matter less if there was genuine, practical concern beyond the tears and smiles. At a certain stage in the life of old people, it is not a great escape that they need, but a dignified one.