Ageing is no fun

Sick to death at having to listen to lying election candidates spin fake stories?

Thankfully that’s all over.

Okay, let’s tackle a far less stressful subject. Like growing old. Hey?

As a youngster I couldn’t fathom why old people abhorred the word “old”. “Senior” was latched on to as if it didn’t mean old.

The antonym of senior is junior and junior means young.

So no more old-age homes, but rather home for seniors. Today I’m an old man. And yet so many old people are in denial and refuse to admit youth is a gonner.

As soon as daughter witnessed her parents falling over and ready for repair and replacements, she reckoned (rightfully so) they would need a caring and practical infrastructure.

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Plan B was actioned, meaning she found us an old-age home. Call it what you like: senior lifestyle luxury living, or Blossoming Gardens, but it remains what it is. An apartment for old people.

The layout tells the story. The few internal doors are lockless, so no keys. Why? In case the old codgers need outside help and access goes unhampered.

Toilets are safe and private libraries no more. Sigh. At strategic places are bright red buttons to press linking the flat to emergency centres.

When looking into the mirror, not often, because Frankenstein is a frightening sight, I see an old pan, weather beaten by the storms of life. Eyes, once Swiss proud blue, now dulled in deep sockets, encircled by fleshy rivulets purple with age.

But the lengths some old folk go to stop what is after all, natural deterioration, are beyond belief.

Like using Preparation H for klapping those fleshy bits. How can a sound mind see a pile shrinker as a beauty product? Imagine an advert with a tube of PH accompanying the punchline: “Because you’re worth it.” A far cry from Lux.

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How about the botoxers? You spot them easily. Their natural facial movements stunted. Sure, the wrinkles are gone, but a face without emotion is far from attractive.

This has prompted the cruel line: “Facelift critics say botox is too expensive – but I spoke to 50 people who just paid for the treatment, and none of them looked surprised.”

Ouch! Sorry, but I’m just a pathetic old oom (an appropriate label from respectful youngsters).