A Certain Age

         There’s a phrase, ‘a woman of a certain age’, which I understand to be a euphemism employed to avoid the indelicacy of stating frankly that she is past her physical prime. Whether it’s still widely used I can’t be sure, but it comes to mind when I reach for a description of several women with whom I have recently had brief interactions. If pressed, I would estimate their ages as being in the sixth or seventh decades, ‘old lady’ territory from the perspective of a youngster, but near contemporary from mine.

          During my recent solo expedition in our campervan (named ‘Bluey’, for its livery), I came to realise that, even though it is 23 years old, our vehicle, far from being scrapworthy, is approaching the point at which the description ‘vintage’ might be considered appropriate. At the entrance to the car park at Scotney Castle, there were two volunteer attendants. I was explaining to the teenaged boy that I had not reserved a space, when his apparent supervisor, an ‘older’ woman came over, barged him aside and smilingly reassured me that I was welcome in the overflow field. “Just turn right by that hedge. Nice van, by the way”, she said.

          The very next day, intrigued by a roadside sign that read Off the Beaten Track, I turned into an extensive, leafy compound to discover a sprawling, scruffy shopping complex of shacks and yards in the indie/alternative/brocante styles. It being late in the day, everything was closing, but the person in charge of locking up, a woman of a certain age, enthused over the project and insisted on showing me around. “Come back tomorrow, when it’ll be busy”, she said.  I replied that I might and reached for my key. “I like your van”, she added, as I climbed in.

          When, later, I told my Other Half about the compliments Bluey had received, she immediately put a different spin on things. “So, you’ve been picking up old ladies then?”

          More recently, in the company of a couple of friends, the four of us boarded the Cremyll ferry for the eight-minute crossing over the river Tamar. The open prow is fitted out with bench seats that are coveted in fine weather, such as pertained at the time. The other three bagged a section, leaving me with not quite enough space between them and a woman of a certain age (and her backpack). “Excuse me”, I said to her, “any chance you might budge up a bit?” She shifted and, as I parked myself beside her, she said, “A slight chance”, which I took as a compliment on the slimness of my hips.

          Whether or not that was her meaning, it was certainly an invitation to a conversation between the two of us. After the usual niceties, she told me about herself. She had seen The Odyssey and it had reawakened her interest in the classics (all of which she had read). She also told me where she lived and that she had to hurry off to her book club as soon as we disembarked. And, in what might have been a last attempt at a pick-up line, she told me her name.

          Walking home, my OH made capital out of this and the other incidents to amuse our friends with her theory that I am in the habit of picking up “old ladies”, as she put it.

          That same day, I overheard a conversation between two, let’s say, ‘retired’ women who were walking just ahead of us. They were talking about the recently introduced electric scooters that can be hired around the city. “I hear they can be quite dangerous”, said one. “Yes”, said the other and, after a brief pause, “Mind you, I must admit, I’d quite like to have a go on one”.

          Now, there’s a game old bird, I thought.