Summertime Blues?

          Summer seems longer this year, perhaps because I’ve enjoyed the extended campervan excursions interspersed with spells at home, where swimming has become a daily routine. Not that I’m keen on swimming per se but, with the sea and an open-air pool on the doorstep, it has become a convenient part of the exercise regime I’ve adopted to defer the muscular-skeletal deterioration brought on by advancing age. And it’s a bonus that, unlike other forms of physical exertion, swimming doesn’t cause me to sweat. Nor does the series of morning stretches that are part of the plan to “use it or lose it”. (Whoever came up with that phrase did a great job of providing an aide memoire for those inclined to laziness or procrastination in respect of athleticism.)

          Autumn is by no means here yet, but the question has already arisen as to whether I will swim in winter. The pool will be closed but the sea will remain open. I could brave it in my wetsuit or coat myself in grease, I suppose, but the prospect is unappealing either way. There is an indoor pool, but it is neither handy nor free and, as we all know by now, the coming tsunami of inflation and energy bills will diminish and, in many cases eliminate, disposable incomes. (Maybe the wetsuit and grease options will be useful for an evening in front of the telly.) Actually, I usually look forward to wintertime – as I do to every season, each with its unique qualities – but this one will be different. For one thing, I will be spending part of it in Australia, where I expect to be broiled alive while trying to keep my cool in the company of family and friends. My summer tan will have long gone and England will be mocked by my hosts as a land of pale-skinned, rain-drenched unfortunates who ought to be grateful for the opportunity to dodge skin cancer on a walk to the supermarket. I shall be glad to get home in November, even if I find, as I expect, widespread civil disorder due to the extreme poverty, for which we have the ‘magic’ of ‘market forces’ to thank.

          The ageing process is remorseless, but we can at least prepare for its onslaught not only physically but also practically and mentally. The importance of the practical side is well illustrated by my ongoing involvement in the care of an aging, invalid aunt. She has been a life-long hoarder but, now that Alzheimer’s has overtaken her, only those possessions to which she is sentimentally attached are of value to her. As to her papers, folders stuffed with old and irrelevant documents such as bank statements and expired insurance policies, they are now consigned to the shredder. I did the same to my own files some time ago, when it became feasible to transact and save all this stuff online. And to those who protest that all will be lost in the event of a mega-crash in the cloud, I retort that housefires are more likely to destroy your precious documentation. (My passwords are stashed in a fireproof location known only to me and my executors.)

          So far, so smug. What I have yet to confront fully is mental attitude. Often referred to as “grumpy old man” syndrome but sometimes manifest in the form of real depression, it is a key indicator of resentment and, as such, an undesirable trait in the elderly. Early experimentation in warding off this evil include heeding advice on the avoidance of uttering involuntary ‘old person noises’ – such as grunting and groaning when settling into or struggling out of an armchair. It may not be much, but it serves as an aide memoire to keep on truckin’ till time is truly up.