Stop offering me your seat kids!
A FEW years ago I bought a beautiful Aquascutum trench coat in a second-hand shop. Unworn. A real bargain.
The odd thing was that I never wore it either. If it was raining the puffer coat with a hood was far better at keeping me dry and my hair unfrizzed.
If it was cold the trench coat wasn’t warm enough yet it was still very heavy. I can’t see that they would have been much use to officers in the First Worldwar trenches either (that’s how they get their name).
A couple of weeks ago I conceded defeat and took it to my local pre-loved designer shop thinking the woman who ran it would snap it up.
But no, she turned it down. “Nobody buys trench coats,” she said. And she knows of what she speaks.
Which is odd, because every year the fashionistas tell us that we must all buy a trench coat and much praise has been lavished onvictoria Beckham’s trench coats made for her new Mango diffusion line.
And it’s true that they certainly look lovely on models, swaggering, dashing, smart but informal. But if I’m honest my belted trench coat made me look more like Humphrey Bogart than Audrey Hepburn. So that was another reason not to wear it. I have learnt my lesson. No more trench coats.
A NINE-YEAROLD boy from Derbyshire has won the European Gull Screeching competition in the Belgian seaside town of De Panne. Cooper Wallace’s impersonation was, indeed, wonderfully convincing – if a little grating.
Cooper’s interest in impersonating gulls developed as a result of having his tuna sandwich stolen by one.
This is the first time a UK contestant has entered the competition. Perhaps his victory is a sign our friends across the Channel are finally getting over Brexit?
WE NEED to know the identity of the member of the Royal Family outed by Rebelwilson in her eye-popping memoirs. She says it was a man who invited her to attend a medieval-themed orgy hosted by a tech billionaire at a ranch outside Los Angeles in 2014.
There was jousting and mermaids. The arrival of the drugs was a cue for the orgy-ing to commence at which point Rebel hastily made her excuses and left.
She believes the royal male was
15th or 20th in line to the throne, which in 2014 appeared to be… Zara Tindall (newly delivered of daughter Mia at that time) or sensible Lady Sarah Chatto.
Back to the drawing board.
AT WHAT age do you become old? A survey in the journal Psychology and Aging has come up with a figure of 74, along with the unsurprising news that as we age we move the goalposts to put off becoming old for as long as possible. The problem for baby boomers (me and possibly you) is that we were the generation that commodified youth. We had mini skirts and fashions that outraged the elderly. We had pop music of which old people disapproved. And we sat on beanbags rather than the armchairs which our square parents favoured.
None of these applies any longer as everyone dresses the same and listens to the same music, while nobody sits on beanbags if they can possibly avoid it.
But being young was our brand and becoming old was never part of the deal. “Hope I die before I get old,” sang the Who’s Roger Daltrey on My Generation.
Obviously he didn’t mean it really and now he is 80 which is, sorry Roger, old.
As I am not yet 74 I can at least congratulate myself on not being old – for the time being. Though I am not sure that other people see it that way. And that is,
I’m afraid, what counts.
You’re not as old as you feel – you’re as old as other people think you look. So what is it with these insensitive young women who keep offering me their seat on the train?
Do I look like I am about to peg out if I stand for a moment longer?
A couple of weeks ago the judge at an employment tribunal ruled that offering a seat to an older employee could count as age discrimination. So watch out you polite, well-meaning youngsters.
Who else do I hate? There are the people who say “aw bless” when I say something particularly witty and acerbic. Saying “aw bless” means “let’s patronise the old girl while appearing to recognise that she is gamely attempting to appear youthful and with it”.
I hate the people who say my grandchildren (much as I love them) “must keep you busy” – as though I have nothing else to do with my time.
I hate the people who say “you look great” – with the phrase “for your age” hovering in the background.
You could say that I’m a grumpy old woman (if you dared) but I’m more angry than grumpy – angry about how older people are perceived.
The sad fact is that our ageist society regards old age as the absolute pits.the best we can do is – health permitting – deny, resist and keep working.
Oh, and don’t make that tell-tale sighing noise whenever you stand up or sit down. You didn’t do it when you were 25 and you don’t have to do it now.
THAT incredible image of the two Household Cavalry horses – one soaked in blood after colliding with a bus – who bolted in central London…is it a sign of the end of days as social media insists? Or is it just two Household Cavalry horses who bolted?