I was recently talking to some friends about the fact that I was writing a book about being in our later years, which I have just published. I may have used the word “old.” One woman immediately alerted me to be careful never to use the word “old” – “We are ‘older’ – not old,” she insisted.

This got me thinking. Everyone tiptoes around the problem of what to call older (or old) people, as if it were a kind of embarrassing condition to which we must not call too much attention.

Pensioners

Oh dear. Such a problem.

Old people in the UK were for many years referred to as old age pensioners (often shortened to pensioners or OAPs). Any woman over 60 (or man over 65) was deemed to be an OAP, correctly as they would be drawing a state pension. The qualifying ages have changed more recently.

Although the phrase was used descriptively, it immediately conjured up someone slightly bent over and possibly leaning on a cane, like those road signs to warn drivers to be careful of old people in the area.

Pensioners were assumed to be poor, to be living quiet lives and not likely to live very long. I’m not sure when it happened, but this term seems to have gone out of style.

Seniors and boomers

In the meantime, the word senior citizen or seniors became very popular in the US and has been growing in Britain.  Aside from the confusion with those in their last year of high school or college, both of whom were known as seniors in my day, this always had the unpleasant whiff of a euphemism to me.  Who, after all, would want to be called a junior? And this is only the reverse.

As my particular generation has aged, older people are sometimes referred to as baby boomers in a descriptive way. This at least has a more active image. The difficulty for me is the incidental association with the word ‘baby’, a patronising epithet for women that has always been deeply offensive to me. Sometimes this is shortened to boomers, often seen as pejorative.

And some words are used for more formal occasions, such as person of advanced years usually in an effort not to sound condescending. The more medical term geriatric and the somewhat jokey term oldster pop up from time to time.

Just occasionally, a word can actually seem respectful of older people. Derived initially from discussions about older people in other societies, the word elder came into fashion, with a mild overtone of wisdom. This is not really used much in ordinary parlance.

Sticks and stones

We all know that there are numerous words that imply an older person, particularly a woman, is decrepit, no longer able to think and, frankly, plain.

There is old crone, followed by old hag, old bag, old biddy and old crock. Not to mention old dear. Even superannuated, although ostensibly more respectful, is not something anyone would aspire to be.

When it comes to politics, the term blue rinse brigade suggests a more conservative (and possibly Conservative) bent. For those who don’t know, it used to be common for older women to rinse their grey hair with a blue dye, giving it a blue-ish tinge.

And then there are the more direct insults. My son, in his teens, referred to older people as crumblies or wrinklies. These, at least, added a bit of humour.

And finally, I can’t omit my favourite. A friend tells me that years ago, the French referred to vielles femmes (old ladies), très vielles femmes (very old ladies) and son et lumières – the latter being the sound and light show often played onto ancient castles or monuments in rural France.

I can just visualise the kind of old lady that might be compared to an ancient monument, but it certainly isn’t me.

I have tried to track this down to more recent usage, but alas, none of my French friends could help here.

Personally, I take it all with a bit of a laugh – we are who we are, and we would smell as sweet by any other name.

A version of this article is published in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older, Glenmore Press.  Available on Amazon and elsewhere.

A few months ago, my husband was approached by a young researcher, doing a study on the frail elderly and clearly keen to approach all such people with the right attitude.  Yet once you have the need for a particular ‘attitude’, instead of a normal interaction with another human being, the trouble begins.

Her concern was to determine whether he was frail enough for the study. Unfortunately, she asked questions in such a way as to suggest that she thought he was probably a bit dim.

This did not go down well. He, being a former academic, was trying to get her to define her terms.

In the end, she decided he was not frail enough, which I am sure was right.

I would make a good guess that she was glad to be rid of him. But not more than he was glad to have avoided involvement with her.  The whole experience did not leave a good taste in his mouth. Nor mine, when he told me about it.  We do not want to be talked down to.

The view from ‘below’

The experience brought back memories of many years ago.

When my son was just two years old, I realised he had a mindset that I had never seen in any other child of my acquaintance. It took some watching and some thinking, but I finally got it pinned down.  He simply did not accept child status.

As far as he was concerned, he was not less equal than the larger people he came into contact with – whether parents, childminders, teachers, our friends or anyone else.  Yes, he needed to learn from them (when he wanted to) and yes, they would insist on bossing him about, but somehow, in his mind, he was their equal. And he squirmed with visible discomfort when confronted with clear condescension.

This continued as he grew older. As a young child, he loved collecting facts of all kinds and had a good memory for them. Even at the age of five, he had no reluctance to correct teachers when their facts were incorrect.

Nor us, of course.

I remember trying to explain this to friends. If we found ourselves on another inhabited planet, I suggested, we would soon realise that we needed to learn the language, the customs, the history and the belief systems of the local people.

BUT we would be darned if we would be talked down to. We were their equals ­– we just had a lot to learn.

Why shouldn’t a small child feel the same way?

And why older people?

Yes, there is a natural tendency (of which I think we were less guilty than many other parents) to talk down to children. But then it seems to go into reverse as we age. There is an even worse tendency to condescend to the old.

There seems to be something about a lot of wrinkles that brings out a wish to talk down.

This is exacerbated when the older person has the bad luck to be in a position of dependency, such as being hospitalised. The “how are we today, Ann?”, asked in a high voice, is not something I have any wish to experience.

This tendency to condescend to old people, when you think about it, is very odd. We are the people who have seen so much more of life and have handled so many more difficult situations.

What happened to the reverence with which ‘elders’ were traditionally regarded? Weren’t we once assumed to have some wisdom?

We should fight back, like my son, whenever we can.

A version of this article was first published in my book The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older, Glenmore Press. Available on Amazon and elsewhere.

When my first grandson was born nearly 16 years ago, I was busy with my work and my own life. His parents lived an hour away from my house, which made two hours travelling if I did the round trip on the same day.

I told my daughter early on that I would not be one of those grandmothers who were ready to be a babysitter at a moment’s notice. We would love to see the baby as often as we could but did not want to be pressed into regular service.

She is a very nice and responsive person and never did press us to sit, although she left him at our house on one or two occasions which was never a problem.

But oh dear, how very wrong I was.

Involved grandparents

Being a grandmother is like many other things in life – the more you put into it, the more you get out.

I didn’t have involved grandparents, so I had no example at first hand. I therefore had to learn this lesson the hard way.

When my second grandson was born over three years later, I still had the same view. But not so long afterwards, my daughter-in-law was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer and not helping out was not an option.

We acquired a cot (crib), bedding, clothes, highchair and all the other accoutrements of having a baby in the house. And by necessity that grandson came to our house frequently, although other relatives and paid help were also called on.

Now, you won’t be surprised to learn that we soon discovered the absolute joy of having a baby around the house.

Plus the toddler he soon became. Not to mention the child who the toddler grew into. He is now 12.

My daughter-in-law’s treatment took a long time, but she slowly recovered (and is now fine). And in the process, we learned so much about ourselves and the nature of being grandparents.

Distant grandchildren

At the same time as I was doing all that childcare, I was compiling a book based on  about their lives. I was fascinated to learn about the different experiences of women as grannies and how they coped.

One of the sadder sets of stories were those of women who lived a long way from their grandchildren and could not see them often. They felt they missed out the chance to get to know them well.

It happens so often these days, because everyone is on the move for work or other reasons. Young people move across the country, or they move to a new continent. It is great on many counts, but not completely.

Inevitably, these women were much less close to their grandchildren. They talked about the complexities of visiting from time to time. They said that seeing grandchildren on Skype was not remotely the same.

They certainly found it difficult to be so distant from their grandchildren.

And I began to understand how lucky people are when they live in the same place. You can play with the grandchildren on the floor when they are small. You can talk to them. You can listen to them.

And you gain so much.

My distant grandchildren

And then it happened to me.

Grandson number one, although living in the same city (London) had remained an hour’s travel away. We saw him when we could, at his house or ours, but visits became less frequent as my daughter went back to work and he went to nursery and then school.

And when he was not at school, he was busy with friends and afterschool activities, like swimming and running. And he didn’t like talking on the phone. And Covid restrictions didn’t help.

He was, in effect, a distant grandchild, albeit not so very distant by location.

Meanwhile, grandson number two moved out of the country with his family  and I learned about long-distance relationships.

The first time I had arranged a zoom call, he had to stop playing with his friends to come in to talk to granny. Not surprisingly, he was not very responsive. He had other things on his mind.

After that, I arranged such calls with him at the last minute, so he was in the right frame of mind.

But talking on zoom is not the same as sitting with a child, hugging him and feeling his presence. It lacks all the joy of touch. It is better than nothing but very frustrating.

I, too, felt I was missing out on the day-to-day changes in his life.

Advice

I rarely give people advice, because I think people are different and need to make their own choices.

But I do advise not following my example. If you have grandchildren, do your best to get to see them as often as possible. Talk to them, listen to them, joke with them. You will gain so much.

Because you never know when it will come to an end.

And you will never regret it.

A version of this article was published on SixtyandMe.com

A lot of people, so I am told, feel that a happy long marriage is simply not possible.

Yes, people fall in love and get married, but the initial excitement with each other wears off sooner or later. And then people just cope with each other and their annoying ways.

At best, neither spouse grumbles too often – and the husband puts out the trash.

Well, I beg to disagree. My husband and I are much, much happier after nearly 60 years together than when we began. And we have much more fun. I think it is so much easier when you’re older.

And I don’t think that we are alone – I note that a number of other people seem to feel the same way.

Survey of what makes for a good marriage

A month or so ago, a survey of married couples was published in some British newspapers which claimed to have discovered the recipe for a good marriage.

Commissioned by a hotel group, it argued that a good marriage was clearly helped by a twice-yearly short break together, as well as two longer holidays.

More interestingly, the happiest couples claimed to have sex five times a week, say “I love you” 20 times a fortnight and kiss two or three times a day.

Moreover, they had six meaningful conversations, three long walks together and two big rows every month.

The journalists had a field day. My newspaper invited four of their writers to comment on this survey. They were particularly amazed by the frequency of sex, with not a single one claiming to reach anywhere near that number.

Yes, it sounds a bit high.

But then, too, do the required number of rows. Why do you need to have major blow-ups so often in order to be happy?

Well, you must wonder at it all. Can this be true? How is everything defined?

I remain sceptical.

Views from my household

Roughly 20 years ago, two friends, both in my choir, had decided to get married, but not without the normal set of doubts.

The bride-to-be took me to one side during the tea break and, believing (correctly) that I was happily married, asked what made for a good marriage.

I was not expecting the question and hesitated. I then came up with a dull litany of the issues one needs to take carefully. They were all about avoiding the negative – being sensitive to the needs of the other person, minimising complaints and the like.

I went home and told my husband of our discussion and he burst out laughing. “No, no, no – It’s much simpler than that”, he exclaimed, “I just find you enormously interesting.”

Collapse of argument. Of course, this question should be answered in a positive way. I passed on his wise words to my friend, and she said, “Good. I find Dan very interesting.”

They are still married.

Early years of marriage

I would argue – against the crowd – that the hardest time to have a happy marriage is in the first few years. You have so much novelty to get used to, so many small changes to be made to your way of doing things.

Both of you. A lot of adjustments.

Yes, you have that initial passion to see you through, but it is not enough. And no one tells you how damn difficult it will be. There you are, having made a lifelong commitment, and it just isn’t what you expected. Very scary.

My situation was compounded by having married at the absurd age of 21. I thought I knew a lot about my new husband, but in retrospect it was so little. And I knew so little about myself.

I remember thinking one day that I should just burn my bridges and get a divorce. But that idea was quickly discarded because it would have proved my mother right.

I was darned if I was going to let that happen.

No, marriage is easier as it settles down, you learn more about each other and about yourselves.

You grow together into something better.

What is a happy marriage?

A happy marriage, for me, is a special kind of friendship. You can talk together about almost anything at some length. You learn from each other. Often.

You enjoy just sitting together doing nothing. Perhaps most of all, leaving aside the unsaid and obvious, you have frequent laughs together. After a while, you stop even questioning moving on. It feels completely right.

I would hate to be a marriage counsellor. All those grudges and recriminations placed oh so carefully in your lap every day!

I would be like the famous Irishman who, on being asked how to get to a particular difficult-to-find place, said, “I wouldn’t start from here.” My counselling advice would start much earlier in the relationship and would be pretty simple.

Keep talking to each other. Keep having sex. And find out what makes you both laugh (bowling? drinks with friends? Adolescent movies?) and do it now and often.

For heaven’s sake, have fun together.

Congratulations

I find that I am often congratulated on my long marriage, presumably on my ability to have been able to live with one person for so long.

I find the comment very strange. Why should anyone congratulate me on a life that is full of love and interest and fun?

My view is that marriage gets better and better. After a while, you know each other pretty darn well. You have had a lot of shared experiences. You have most likely lived through the incredible joys and challenges of children.

With luck, you have had a lot of laughs on the way. Somehow, there is no going back.

And why would you want to?

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was also published on SixtyandMe.com

I like being old. At nearly 80, I think I am allowed to say so. Indeed, I like being old so much that I wrote a book about it.

But that doesn’t mean that everything about being old is wonderful.

Far from it.

And one of the things I like least is the loss of friends.

Phone bills

Roughly 20 years ago, I was chatting to a very reflective female friend of my parents, living in the same retirement community and aged 96.

My father had just died, and I noted that I had run up a large phone bill talking to his friends about the event, as well as phoning home to talk to my family.

She said anyone should consider themselves lucky to have a high phone bill. At her time of life, her phone bills were very low, because she had so few friends left to talk to.

Interestingly, that small detail brought home the point very vividly.

Friends gone

Clearly, one of the very sad aspects of growing older is the slowly mounting deaths among friends.

Each and every loss diminishes our lives a little bit more. These may be old friends we have known from childhood or someone who we just met, but had connected with and held high hopes for a lasting friendship.

I guess it is just down to luck as to whether you have lost a lot of friends over your life or just a few. I have been relatively lucky in this respect, but nonetheless, they do add up.

What somehow surprises me is how many varying circumstances there are.

You might think a death is a death is a death.

But that is not how it is. Indeed, each one seems surprisingly different.

A death from AIDS

There is the death of my friend who had been living with AIDS since I met him, about whom I have written before. He was very young and that made it especially poignant.

He would sit in my kitchen and talk about all manner of things, but more than once he just looked at me and said, “It’s not so much to ask, I just want my life.”

And he was right. At 30, you should have a life to look forward to.

An old friend from college

Perhaps my greatest loss was of a friend from college, who I had known for over 50 years. We had seen each other through various early boyfriends, then marriage, then children and eventually grandchildren.

She was a very deep person, perhaps not surprisingly as she was a therapist, and rarely did ‘small talk’.

We once met for lunch when we had not seen each other for five years. I went to her office, she put on her coat and walking up the road, immediately launched into a discussion of her worries about one of her daughters.

None of the usual “how was your flight?” which I always find boring. Who cares about my flight!?

She died from lung cancer, having lived a long time in its wake.

The conductor of my choir

People often feel a sense of kinship with the conductor of their choir (or orchestra). You see them frequently for rehearsals – often over many years – and music brings its own intimacy.

I had been singing with his choir for roughly 25 years. And he had a wonderful twinkle in his eye.

In addition, the man had been very helpful to my son, and we had become friends. We socialised together with our respective spouses. I had helped him out when his wife died of cancer.

He had TB, contracted when, as a young man, he helped a homeless man find a shelter for the night. As such, he would have undoubtedly been a likely candidate for Covid-19.

But he was already going downhill in his mid-70s and increasingly needed help with his breathing. He died before Covid was on the horizon.

Much of the choir could not sing certain music without tears in their eyes.

A fellow writer

And there are the sudden unexpected deaths. I had a writer friend, to whom I wasn’t very close, but we enjoyed each other’s company.

He lived alone, had many friends and learned about a year or so ago that he had an inoperable brain tumour and would not live for more than a few weeks.

I can just envisage him wondering what to do. His solution – surprising at the time, but actually very sensitive and sensible – was to post a notice to this effect on his Facebook page.

He also said “thank you” to all his friends. This gave everyone an opportunity to write kind or thoughtful words to him while he was still alive, while I am sure his closest friends rallied around.

The loss of friends

One by one, they drop out of your life.

You want to tell them something, but they are not there to hear. Or you want their advice, but they are not there to give it.

I want them all back.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com

The Granny Who Stands on Her Head is not a book about being a granny, nor is it a book about yoga postures. It IS a book about being an older woman, liking that fact and enjoying life to the full, including doing headstands.  I wrote it and I am two months short of turning 80.

I decided to write this book because somewhere in the middle of my seventies, I realised that I liked being old.  Before that, I probably didn’t really think of myself as being old. Many of us don’t.

This made me stop and question why I liked being old.

There are plenty of things to be said against it and i write about them in the book. There is the failing health, the diminished energy and the frightful memory.

We need to think about giving up certain things, like a well-loved house or apartment that is too large, and driving as much as we used to – if at all.

Moreover, friends are dying and we begin to think about dying ourselves.

Yet the surprising thing about being old is how much continues as before. We continue to do most the things we always liked to do. This may be singing, as in my case, or it may be sewing or making pottery. If we cooked before, we cook now. And many of us have just as much sex as ever.

And the equivalent downside is that many of the things we have always disliked continue much as before as well.  I happen to have hated shopping all my life and I still do. I have worried much too much all my life and I still do. And I get particularly cranky when my computer is down.

BUT all this having been said, there are real plusses to becoming old. Many of us have the very real pleasures of grandchildren, who light up our lives. Our friendships – and often our marriages – are stronger than ever.

And most of all, being old means you have had a lot of experience of life and you know who you are – both your strengths and your weaknesses. You tend to have become comfortable in your own skin. As a result, you tend to feel much more free to do what you want – and not what you don’t want. How wonderful is that!

I hope that the title conjures up all these thoughts.  I am old, I am a granny, but I love yoga and I love standing on my head. It brings a freedom and it just feels good.

You will find The Granny Who Stands on Her Head as a paperback or an e-book on Amazon or other e-readers, such as Apple or Kobo.  It will make a wonderful present for any reflective older woman.

People everywhere are fascinated by sex. I am not the first to say so. We wonder what other people do and when and what it means to them. And some wonder how long it continues.

When I was in my 20s, I naively thought that sex was only for the young. It simply did not occur to me that people over 40 continued with such activities.

This was nothing to do with any connection to child-bearing, but simply to the assumption that only the young had an appetite for – or interest in – sexual relationships.

As we age, we learn more – about this as well as everything else. There is, of course, much more research now.

Surveys will tell you about the extent of sexual activity at different ages. But few of these involve people over 70. And we are often reluctant to raise the issue with people we know.

The story of my parents

Of all the stories I tell about my family, the one which always gains immediate attention is one about my father.

My parents lived in an independent apartment in a retirement community in central Pennsylvania. They moved in when they were both roughly 80 and died within three months of each other, 10 years later. That was nearly 20 years ago.

After about five years, my mother developed vascular dementia. This is, of course, every married person’s worst fear. The husband or wife is no longer what they once were, but you are still married. And it is harder and harder to cope with the sheer physical demands.

My mother remained in the family apartment for well over a year, with a caretaker having been hired to help with her daily needs.

But eventually, it was too much for my father to manage and it was agreed that she would move to the Assisted Living section of the community. She was looked after, but he could pop in several times a day to see her.

He rarely complained, at least to me. It was just something that had happened.

An affair begins at 90

In the meantime, his eyesight had worsened, and he was losing one of his great pleasures – reading. He listened to a lot of audiobooks (and complained that there was no easy way to find the place where you fell asleep).

He had a friend, a somewhat younger woman, who came in to read to him. He was terribly pleased about this and talked about it – and her – quite frequently in our regular phone calls.

I should have seen it coming. When a man starts mentioning a woman (or vice versa) quite often, it tends to mean that something more than friendship is involved. But it just didn’t occur to me.

My daughter suggested that it was a possibility and I thought, no, that is unlikely. Not because the thought upset me, but they just seemed too old.

I went to visit around the time of his 90^th birthday, when we were holding a party for him. Soon after I arrived, he sat down and clearly wanted to communicate something to me.

He had never sought very intimate discussions, but this time was different. He mentioned the name of the woman, who I had not yet met, and said he wanted me to know that they had become ‘an item’. I remember thinking the word was odd.

He was very clear. This was not ‘simply kissing and cuddling’, it was the real thing. Indeed, he said his doctor thought it was terrific for his health. There was no mention of love, but that did not seem important. The key thing was that he was happy. And he was. He was then 90 and she was 83.

I was surprised, but also delighted. Whatever my views about fidelity in marriage, they do not extend to the time when one partner is effectively no longer there. I made this very clear and could see him visibly relax.

He had wanted me to know but had been frightened of my reaction. He said his worst fear was that some other resident would tell my mother, but it did not look like that had happened. He still continued to visit her as before.

My father and his lady friend never moved in together, although perhaps they stayed in each other’s apartments when I was not there. I did not press for such details.

She continued to be a regular presence in his life until he died. Indeed, the night he died, she went to the hospital and sat with his body for a long time.

When do people stop having sex?

I don’t know when – and if – people stop having sex. I suspect there is a lot of it about. Certainly, in the retirement community, it was common for couples to spring up quite quickly after the death of a partner.

But I do know about my father. And when I tell this story, I have never heard a reaction other than “what a wonderful story” or “so, there’s hope then”. I’m sure he would be delighted for you to know.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was first published on SixtyandMe.com

It is a common practice to divide the world into two types of people. Extroverts and introverts. Meat eaters and vegetarians. In England, Marmite lovers and haters. My distinction for today is between those who love to laze around and do nothing and those who are happiest when they are doing something useful. Popular culture would have us believe that the former is the norm, that we are all waiting for the summer holidays so that we can lie on a beach. Anything connected to ‘work’ is to be avoided as much as possible.

I am not so sure. I know a lot of the latter type of people. And I am certainly one of them.

Being Useful

I have always been driven by the desire to be doing something – and, preferably, something of value to someone.  Doing nothing can certainly be pleasurable for a while. But its main use is to ensure that your brain or body is well rested, so that you will be firing on all cylinders when you return to purposeful activity. It is not an end in itself.

There are, of course, a myriad of ways to be ‘useful’. You may be a carer (caretaker) for someone and need to engage in a whole range of activities to meet their needs. You may like building things from scratch or taking them apart in order to understand them. You may simply want to get things done around the house – clean out that cupboard or make those new curtains.

Alternatively, like me, you may like to engage in creative activity, whether writing books or painting pictures or inventing new recipes in the kitchen. And much, much more.

You may or may not do these things well. You may or may not be satisfied with the result. But the key point is that the activity is important to you and helps you to feel that your time was well spent. You would rather do them than laze around.

Nature or Nurture

What makes us so clearly one way or the other? I was brought up by a mother with a ferocious work ethic. She was in any case unusual in having worked in a professional job while bringing up three children in the 1940s and ‘50s (no surprise now, but then it was distinctly unusual).

She was not keen on ‘relaxation’, although she would read at times and, in the summer, liked to weed her garden for this purpose. Perhaps I get it from her.

If we are in any way moulded by our schooling, then that, too, pushed in the same direction. I went to a very academic girls’ private school in New York City, whose motto was ‘in truth and toil’ and whose mascot was a beaver. Do you detect a strong work ethic here? Perhaps hard work was imprinted onto my brain by a daily dose of ‘toil’.

But I do wonder. If I had been born with a penchant for taking it easy, I might have rebelled heavily against such influences. As I watched my two very different children grow into adults, I increasingly questioned the impact of nurture in comparison to nature.

I think we come out of the womb with a lot of characteristics that we spend a lifetime discovering. But they were there, just as much as the tilt of our nose or the colour of our hair.

Getting Tired

But returning to the matter at hand, one sad discovery about growing older is that we tend to get tired more easily. We lose the resilience we had when younger and our batteries run down faster and faster.

This starts at different ages for different people but seems to creep up on us when we are not looking. As far as I can see, it increases slowly each year and greatly diminishes our energy for getting things done.

For those of us with an eagerness to be engaged in positive activity, this lack of energy is incredibly annoying. It means we cannot work for long periods without becoming tired. And the definition of that ‘long period’ slowly shortens from a day to half a day to even an hour.

Your body becomes a battleground – your head wants to get something done, but your body rebels. That old saying, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” comes into play.

At the end of a day, you find yourself disappointed with the paltry amount accomplished. You had such great plans, but you got little or nothing done.

It is not so different from the lockdowns we have suffered in the UK and others have done elsewhere. They are a kind of imprisonment where we cannot do what we want, what one grandson called ‘a kind of house arrest’.

A lack of energy is exactly the same.

A version of this article has been published in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on Growing Older