IAN McMILLAN I’m 68, you know, and the guesswork can go on

WHAT a difference a couple of words makes; it’s all about where you place those words of course, and how you say them, and what kind of emotional and cultural heavy lifting those extra words are expected to do. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately, and about a certain couple of words in particular.

I’m 68 years old, and I have been for a while. That isn’t old by today’s standards, particularly in a wealthy country like ours, but I’ve found myself becoming increasingly drawn to just adding two words to the end of that statement about my age, two words that open up a world that I never thought I’d open up when I was a young whippersnapper of, say, 67.

The two words I’m thinking about are ‘you’ and ‘know’, in that order. So now, instead of just saying ‘I’m 68’, I’m finding that I’m tempted to say, to total strangers in bus shelters, ‘I’m 68 you know!’ and of course I’m hoping to elicit the golden reply ‘68? Nivver! Tha dunt look a day over 50!’

When I was younger I used to look down on those white-haired types who would accost me in places like Scarborough or Tong and say ‘How old do you reckon I am, lad?’

Then I would be on the horns of particularly painful dilemma where the horns were sharp and unforgiving.

Frankly, readers, the person asking the question looked to be their late 90s. They could even have been a centenarian.

But if I guessed 92 and it turned out they were 47 then I knew I’d be in trouble. My guess would be wrong in Tong and barbarous in Scarborough, whatever it was.

I’d try to say a neutral-sounding age like 77 and then they could say with a brassy note of triumph in their voice ‘Nay, lad; I’m 104 you know, and I’ve still got most of my own teeth!’

As we parted then and walked our separate ways the older person would turn (slowly and creakingly, I have to admit) and say ‘104 you know!’ the handful of teeth flashing like pearls strung on a gummy necklace. I suppose that the age-guessing thing only creeps up on as we get older. Forty-five-year-olds would never dream of asking people to guess how old they were, and neither would 55-year-olds, but there’s something about sitting in the waiting room of old age, something about the moment when your state pension appears in your bank account, that emboldens you to share your age with the world.

I guess the oldie like me shares that age-announcing urge with small children, who are often delighted to tell you just how old they are. They feel a need to tell the world that they’re seven or eight or nine, and they make wildly inaccurate guesses about the ages of the grown-ups around them.

My white hair makes them think I’m at least 80 and the lines scribbled on my face then make them revise that estimate upwards towards, as they say in bingo games, the top of the shop.

When I tell them I’m 68 (you know) there’s often a bit of disappointment but then again to a child of seven, 68 is only about a month away from 98, in that foggy country called Old Age where the hills are more or less the same age as grandad.

I hope I don’t become an age bore, though, spouting my years in any public or semi-public space. I’m sure I won’t. Not me. Did I tell you, by the way: I’m 68 you know.