The Third Age

“They all wear matching cable-knit sweaters made by Great Aunt Gertie. They are annoyingly healthy, go on long walks in the country and only eat organic food. They are very socially conscious, they recycle, they worry about the ozone layer, and they give to acceptable charities. They have long intellectual discussions about politics and art. They read good books and some of them even go BIRD WATCHING!”

“They are OLD, they are RETIRED, they’re past it. You have to present your pension book, if there is such a thing, to gain admittance. What would happen to my ‘street cred’ if I became a member? I couldn’t slouch in front of the tele any more and watch drivel. I would have to behave in a socially acceptable way and never say or do anything that was in any way controversial. I do not want to be associated with these people. I’m not ready to embrace that lifestyle!”

I had heard these comments and many more like them innumerable times. I did everything that I could to dissuade him, introduced him to people who were already members, left brochures lying about, and made a point of watching relevant TV programmes and all to no avail.

“I am not prepared for this. I am not OLD enough!” And that was it. No more discussion to be encompassed. So I did it myself. Filled in the forms, sent off the cheque and waited.

It was there, waiting on the mat when I got back from Sainsbury’s. I was trying to juggle six bags, including a freezer bag, and it was the hottest day of the year so far. If I didn’t get the stuff into the freezer pretty quick it would all be beyond redemption. The family was coming over for a meal at the weekend and I’d spent rather more than usual on the shopping. If I hid the bank statement when it came he wouldn’t notice. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not mean but has a way of making me feel guilty.

“Did you have to buy free range, aren’t the others cheaper, and just as good? It all tastes the same to me anyway.” or “You know that wine is a great con. It all comes out of one huge vat in the middle of the Burgundian countryside; you might just as well buy the cheapest! I prefer beer anyway and I know your brother does!”

I suppose that I am the perpetual optimist and in spite of countless disappointments I expect things to be better next time. I kicked the post to one side, turned off the alarm, pushed the door shut with my foot and struggled to the kitchen with the shopping.

I love cooking and trying out new recipes. My brother and his family are willing guinea pigs and when invited for a meal the response is, ‘Great! Look forward to it!’ My husband, the perennial ‘pessimist’, says, ‘He would say that to be polite. They’d rather stay at home and watch Casualty.’ I ignore his negative comments and lay before him a selection of cookery books. ‘Jamie says that this is a very easy recipe. What do you think?’ or ‘That Delia recipe for venison sausage is wonderful, but would it go with pear and chocolate tart?’ I know that his response will be ‘Don’t go to so much trouble. What’s the easy option?’ I usually end up with a menu that requires split second timing and requires my presence in the kitchen for most of the time that the family is here.

The advantage of giving my full attention to these menu complications is that I have little time to consider that large brown envelope that had been waiting for me on the mat, or how I am going to tell him what I have done. I shove it behind the stereo and wait for the right moment.

The rest of the week passes in a flurry of activity. I am determined that this time I will spend quality time with my family and not with my cooker. The chocolate and pear tart is happily defrosting after having been safely ensconced in the freezer for most of the week. The venison sausage casserole can be left to its own devices without coming to too much harm and the melon and Parma ham is easy peasy.

It is Saturday, the day that the family is coming, and of course top of the list is a complete house clean. I know that they will not investigate the spare bedroom and discover the pile of unironed laundry. They will not run their fingers across the tops of doors looking for dust or discover the tumbleweed under the bed but just in case it has to get a quick lick over with a duster and the vacuum. By lunchtime the house is clean and sparkling, ready for my visitors. Next is to lay the table with best china and silver and an appropriate table decoration. I don’t do any of this to impress but because I like, occasionally, to make the effort. It makes such a change from sitting in front of the tele with a convenience meal on a tray on our laps.

Everything is on schedule and I have time for a relaxing soak in the bath before they arrive. I persuade him to have a quick shower and change into that nice blue linen shirt that I bought him. I can’t ever remember being so well prepared before; I’ve even had time for a sit down and a glass of sherry before the bell goes. It is lovely to see them and catch up with their news.

We sit down with a glass of wine and some nibbles.

“It won’t be long. Everything is ready. Sweetheart, how about putting on that new CD?” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I realise.

“It’s OK. You sit down I’ll do it.” Too late. He has reached the stereo and of course has noticed the large brown envelope behind it.

“What’s this love. Why haven’t you opened it?” He is insatiably curious and I just know that he will have to open it especially as it is addressed to both of us.

My brother and his wife sit and watch wondering what is going to happen. He slits open the envelope and slowly pulls out the contents. A look of horror crosses his face and he turns pale. He looks accusingly at me. “You haven’t! This is it now. I’m on the downward slope, death can’t be too far away!”

He is such a drama queen.

All I had done was take out a joint subscription to the National Trust.