I have noticed a disturbing trend in recent months, most commonly when I'm flying. And that is that whenever I'm in a row of seats with a younger female passenger, the cabin crew are far more likely these days to serve me first. This is disturbing because I can only attribute this to an "age before gender" etiquette that has never previously applied to me.
But listen up cabin crew - I'm only 48 for Christ's sake.
Maybe it's paranoia, but I'm also sensing on occasion that slightly condescending, overly sympathetic gleam in the eye of a younger person who holds a door open for me, for example. Hateful. I am beginning to properly understand why some old people become grumpier as they age.
My father on the other hand, who lived to 84, took it all in good grace and loved it. He revelled in the attention, and it was always an excruciating exercise to go shopping with him and witness the attention fawned on him. Shop assistants who'd barely give me the time of day would find chairs for him, serve him to the exclusion of all others and happily chit chat with him on matters totally unrelated to whatever the business at hand was. Nauseous.
The pragmatic thing would be to accept it and make the most of it while you can, as my father did. But, as I said, I'm only 48. I'm not old. Don't consider my self old. Quite the opposite in fact.
The ageing metaphorical salt was further rubbed in the festering wounds again recently when I discovered a seemingly wonderful radio station playing all the classics of my yoof - Led Zep, Bowie, The Who, et cetera - wonderful music, but I couldn't stand it because all the ads were for funeral plans, denture clinics and retirement homes...
I say again, I'm only 48, God damn it!
We keep being told that the population is ageing, but as far as I can see, it appears the world is now run by generation X, Y and whatever the hell they call the youngest up-themselfers who have the impression that anyone over 40 is already one foot in the biodegradeable cardboard coffin. Again, hateful.
Yesterday I visited an exclusive wine store which supposedly has pretty much anything and everything (even a 5 litre bottle of Chateau d'Yquem for example - for those who understand such things*). I was searching for a fume blanc similar in style to a locally famous one made by wine maker Tim Knappstein in the late 70s/early 80s. The first two store assistants (both in their 30s) I asked had no idea of the wine I was referring to. A third assistant, in his 50s at a guess, did know of the wine but then changed his expression to one of "that was so long ago - how dare you remind me of past glories that can never be again". He then cold shouldered me, as if greatly offended. It is true that nostalgia can be a dangerous thing, but seldom have I found that it provokes antagonism in quite this way.
So as I sit here listening to Dio's "Rainbow In The Dark" and mourning the loss of poor old Ronnie James who died recently, nursing my arthritic left knee and staring balefully at the superannuation statement that just arrived in the post to remind me that I'm going to have to accept the fact that I will soon enough have to retire (and that I don't have enough savings to do so), I am left pondering the pros and cons of the ageing process. But as I pour another glass of 33-year old port** that was purchased as a relative youngster for next to nothing and has been sitting quietly and patiently in my cellar all this time waiting for this moment, I conclude that some of the benefits of the ageing process are bloody well worth it.
Hell yes.
*Six thousand Australian dollars, if you're interested.
** 1977 McWilliams Vintage Port, damn lovely.
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