I have always loved to write. Should you give it a try? The answer depends on what you want to do – and be.

Many people think that this is a glamorous activity, but I can assure you that it is not. You sit at home on your own, in your own world. Or in a cafe, with noise all around, but in your head, you are alone with your computer.

You struggle to think how to put your thoughts. Sometimes nothing comes. Sometimes what does come is not worth the candle.

In the old days of paper, you often found yourself with a wastebasket full of scrunched up bad starts. Now, you just press a computer key and everything disappears.

And yet I love it. Because sometimes you say exactly what you wanted to say. And then it is wonderful.

Children and writing

Most of us were expected to write from time to time as a child. I am sure I wrote the usual dull stories of princesses that young girls tend to write. I don’t remember them at all.

Perhaps you wrote something more interesting then.

What I do remember is going to my father’s office one Saturday morning, when he had urgent work to do, but needed to look after me. I was given some paper and pens and was told to sit quietly at a big table.

The idea came to me to write the story of my life (I would not have known the word ‘autobiography’). I had one line for each age.

The whole thing ended with the memorable statement “Age 8: And then I understood what life was.”

For some reason – I didn’t know why at the time ­– my parents thought this was funny. Or, perhaps, charming.

They kept this document safe, and I found it with their papers after they had died, along with the jacks and rubber ball I used to play with at more or less the same time.

Finding a career

I never thought of pursuing writing as a career, for instance becoming a novelist. This was never seen as a ‘real’ career. I also didn’t feel I had enough to write about. And, most importantly, it would not support my husband through his PhD.

But writing can take many forms and, in the end, I found my way. I became a social researcher and wrote numerous reports, articles and, yes, even books on the topics of my research. I liked doing this and others seemed to like what I produced. And so it went on year after year.

When I chose to work freelance, I was asked to do a lot of writing – reports from Committees of Inquiry or for Government departments, more mundane reports and even research proposals. I also found myself doing a lot of editing.

Even after retirement, I carried on doing unpaid what I had previously done for pay, because it was what I liked to do. I even went back to that day in my father’s office and wrote a kind of memoir.

Not that I really know what life is.

The process of writing

So why do I like writing? For as long as I can remember, I just liked the process – I enjoy the challenge of working out how to begin and how to find the right word for any particular context. The rhythm of a sentence is important to me.

I like seeing a piece of writing grow, like a knitter of an ever-increasing blanket or sweater.

And equally importantly, I love the process of cutting it back, namely editing. It is like weeding. Just as a garden can suddenly have a shape and a beauty when the weeds have gone, so too can a piece of writing.

Should you take up writing?

Would I recommend writing as an activity to take on in your 60s or beyond? Why not, if you have the inclination, feel you have something to say and want to try.

Even if you’re not sure what you want to say, it is worth having a go.

You may find a whole new career, writing down stories you told your children or grandchildren or exploring difficult or interesting experiences from your life.

Or you might even find yourself producing a novel.

If you are seeking fame or, indeed, an easy income, it is definitely not a good idea. It is possible to become rich and famous as a writer, but it is exceedingly unlikely.

But it is a great way to challenge yourself and do something that is genuinely creative. And you can do it anywhere and anytime.

Think about it.

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

“I’ve had my three score years and ten. I really can’t complain – all the rest is extra.” These are the words of my father a few years before he died.

The number these days – probably even then – might not be exactly right when calculating the average life span, but the attitude is spot on.

When it comes to living, we all want more, more, more. But I think we should be pleased when we get those extra years of life. They should be valued and savoured as much as the years before.

But my father had a much more serious problem than simply dying – he was deeply concerned for the welfare of my mother, who had vascular dementia.

If he died first, who would look after her when he was gone?

Older People

Many of us older people these days find ourselves in the role of carers (or ‘caretakers’ in the US). There is the occasional carer for a parent – the children of all those centenarians, after all, are not exactly young.

But much more common are the older people caring for a spouse with a serious disease or disability. They slowly aged together and one of them became afflicted with some problem or other.

The remaining spouse generally does what he or she can for a period. If things become too difficult to manage, the overwhelmingly stressful decision may be taken to put them into a care or nursing home of some sort.

But this doesn’t take away the problem. All the worries of who will visit and care about them and how the ill or disabled person will manage in the case of their death still remain.

In my father’s case, the situation was eased because they lived in a retirement community and, when he could no longer cope, my mother was moved to the ‘assisted living’ – and later, the ‘nursing care’ – part of the same complex.

Moreover, he had hired a wonderfully attentive woman to see to her needs for some hours every day. She helped my mother to dress, talked to her endlessly and took her out for walks.

She had a marvellous combination of practicality, good sense and great warmth. She undoubtedly eased the lives of both my parents in their last years.

And yet this did not solve my father’s problem of dying before my mother.

He broached this issue with my brother and myself on several occasions, and we assured him we would continue to do what we could – and to pay for the extra help for as long as it was needed.

Other people with disabilities

I had already been very familiar with this problem. Many years ago, I had carried out some research on the problem of parents of adult sons and daughters with what are now called learning disabilities.

Many of the parents were in their late 70s and 80s and many of their ‘children’ were aged 50 and above. The study was ostensibly about what they saw as the best housing arrangements once their son or daughter moved from the family home.

But it soon became clear that the real issues that worried these parents were emotional – not practical – ones.

First, the tremendous family bond meant that they didn’t want their son or daughter to move away to be helped by anyone else. They feared that no one would love them or care for them in the same way.

And second, they were deeply, deeply worried about what would happen after they were gone.

This was probably the most emotionally stressful of any of the research I ever undertook, with highly emotive interviews often ending with tears.

My colleague and I felt that we had no easy answers, but it was important to raise the question, which had been largely hidden. By bringing it out in the open, we hoped that both parents – and the professionals who worked with them – could begin to make appropriate and thoughtful decisions.

We published a book called Letting Go, which got some attention at the time (1989) but is long out of print. I should mention that the book has not been updated since it was published, so if you manage to find a copy, please do bear that in mind.

The problem of dying

I want to come back full circle to where I began. As we age, we naturally begin to think about death and its implications for ourselves.

This is normal – and healthy ­– and I hope everyone can find their own peace.

But spare a thought for those who have that additional worry of what will happen to someone they love when they are gone. They are the ones for whom we must have the utmost sympathy.

Postscript

My father did die first. But my mother died only three months later. We continued to pay for her companion, who was enormously helpful to the end.

At my father’s request, we gave her an extra sum after my mother’s death in thanks for her devotion to my mother.

And I learned some years later that she used this sum to pay for nursing training, got her diploma and has since become a nurse, a lifelong ambition.

This article was first published on SixtyandMe.com

Yes, I am about to reach the big 80. It’s not a surprise. I have seen it coming for some years. But I only started thinking about it recently.

Big birthdays

We all tend to make a bit of a meal of the decade birthdays, although less so at age 10 (all part of childhood) and age 20 (because we make a fuss of 21).

Each one sounds ‘old’ at the time. We fear becoming 30 (yes, I know it sounds ridiculous now), because it somehow means we are ‘over the hill’. Little did we know.

Age 40 and 50 remain milestones as each sounds like a marker for a different part of middle age. And I suspect the unspoken thought is that middle age itself is only a stone’s throw from something called ‘old’.

Sixty must have a meaning to readers of Sixty & Me and it is, after all, the traditional benchmark for the beginning of our older years. And yes, it does feel like a big step, even though for me, it is now 20 years ago.

Celebrating birthdays

For the first time since my childhood, I held a big party when I turned 60. My daughter helped with the organising. We hired a room and had live music, loads of good food and wine. Some friends even came from abroad. It was very memorable.

By the time I turned 70, I chose to have a much smaller party, but a number of friends came to my house to celebrate. As it happened, it was the first slightly warm day after a cold winter and everyone was in a good mood for that reason.

And now, at 80, I shall have my daughter and her family, plus my long-suffering husband who does not even like parties. My son and his family are too far away.

But it is enough. Our world shrinks somewhat as we age. But so do our expectations.

My feelings about turning 80

But the real question is, how do we feel about turning 80? I can’t speak for anyone else, but I feel great. I didn’t expect this reaction, but it is what I find.

I feel I have climbed a mountain and like the view. Or have been honoured with some unexpected prize.

It is a sense of achievement. Perhaps well-described in the Sondheim song “I’m still here,” sung famously by Elaine Stritch.

Yet all I have really done is just kept breathing. Looked in that way, it is hardly an achievement at all.

Being old

The truth of the matter is I like being old. It took me awhile to realise that fact, but once I did, I gave it some thought as to why.

The result was a book, just published a few months ago, exploring the joys and challenges of being older.

I concluded that although there are both upsides and downsides to becoming old, for me the former outweigh the latter. As long as – and this is a big proviso – you retain reasonably good health.

Yes, you go downhill physically – no doubt about that. Your memory is not what it was, and your energy is disappointing. Your body lets you down in many ways.

Your day-to-day life tends to shrink. You may give up driving. You may look to downsize your living arrangements. You begin to lose some people you love – old friends, perhaps your spouse.

And you become more aware of the Grim Reaper looking over his shoulder in your direction.

But this is only one part of the story. I like being old because of the very great self-confidence it brings. You know yourself – your strengths and your weaknesses – and, with luck, you have come to terms with your life. You feel comfortable in your own skin.

All this brings a sense of freedom or liberation like never before.

Relationships tend to strengthen with age. With your spouse. With your friends. With your now grown-up children. And in many cases, you have the delight of new grandchildren in your life.

What’s not to like? And, as my dad used to say, it is better than the alternative.

This article was first published by SixtyandMe.com

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

“Everyone makes mistakes – and so do I,” sang the wonderful Big Bird in Sesame Street all those years ago. I still remember the tune of that song.

And the message is great. I was brought up to feel I shouldn’t make mistakes, I shouldn’t get things wrong. So I tried very hard not to.

Nonetheless, we do all get things wrong from time to time – and I certainly did. This is the story of a real doozy.

Becoming a film ‘extra’

Over 40 years ago, I received a general invitation to take part as an extra in a movie being filmed in London. An amusing idea, I thought, but not for me. I was busy with work, as well as looking after my seven-year-old daughter.

But my husband and daughter had other ideas. The minute I told them about it, they became very insistent: “You’ve got to do it.” I demurred. They pressed. They did not let up.

In the end, I went. My work was part-time and very flexible, so it was easy for me to take a few days off. My husband would get my daughter to school and back.

The film

The film, directed by Fred Zinnemann, was called Julia, starring Jane Fonda, Vanessa Redgrave and Jason Robards. It was about the American playwright, Lillian Hellman, and her attempt to smuggle cash into pre-war Germany at the request of her Jewish friend Julia.

Not that I knew much of that at the time.

We extras were used for several scenes, but my moment of glory took place in only one – a post opening night dinner at Sardi’s, the place that theatre people went on such occasions. It was famous for its cartoons of theatre people all over the walls.

(I was taken there years later by my parents, to see how it looked in real life. It was not very different from the film set. Having opened in 1921, it still exists one hundred years later.)

Being on set

We were all dressed in costumes of the period, plus a wig and make-up, so I looked nothing like my normal self (short hair and no make-up). I was amazed by the detailed trouble taken over people who would only be in the background.

I soon found that it was very boring most of the day. We spent a lot of time sitting around reading or chatting amongst ourselves. Some of the extras were regulars and I learned that we should hope that the filming went on for a long time, because we would then be paid overtime.

On set, it became more interesting. We were seated at tables with food in front of us and warned not to touch it. There was real shrimp cocktail, but they would not vouch for its freshness or safety.

When filming began, we had to look like we were in conversation, which was not difficult as we had been talking all day. But we could watch the actors surreptitiously, of course, as well as the director.

Watching a scene being filmed

When we were not on set, we were able to watch some of the filming.

I watched one scene, where Jane Fonda was talking to a young actress with the peculiar name of Meryl Streep. She was not especially pretty and seemed very awkward and uncomfortable in the role.

Indeed, I concluded that with her apparent lack of ability, lack of good looks and her odd name, she would not go far.

I even remember wanting to put an arm around her (she was ­only six years younger than me, but I felt motherly) and give her some sort of comfort.

I even wondered whether it would be appropriate to invite her home for dinner, but never acted on the thought.

Getting it very wrong

Oh dear. So much for my perspicacity. I did make a very large mis-judgment. Although I can add that I did read subsequently in some magazine interview that she said it was her first film and she definitely did feel uncomfortable.

I saw Julia, of course, when it came out – and on the television years later, when I could stop and rewind. There was no sign of me whatsoever – just a blur as the camera panned the restaurant while Jane Fonda made her grand entrance.

It was not a terrible film, but not a great one either and seems to have disappeared into the mists of time.

The beginning and end of my film career. But I don’t need to tell anyone that Meryl Streep went on to impress the world, including me, with her enormous sensitivity and skill as one of the foremost actresses of our time.

Perhaps one should cut a little slack to first films, first books and first everything else.

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

Something made me think about ambition recently. Did I feel it was a good or bad thing in people, especially my friends? The answer is complicated.

The pros

On initial thinking, I tended to feel that ambition, when not taken to extremes, is a good thing.

It doesn’t matter whether a person’s aim is to be the best composer of the age or to reach the top job of his or her company (or the country, for that matter).

It makes us work harder at what we do and put real thought into how to do It better.

Indeed, although I lack appropriate evidence, ambition of one kind or another is probably responsible for most forms of human progress.

We seek to get there, so we seek new solutions. We often find new problems as we do so and seek solutions for them. And so forth and so on.

Progress gets made.

The cons

But there are also unintended consequences of ambition. It drives us on, but it also drives us to neglect other aspects of our lives. Not in every case, but often.

Hence, the large number of unhappy wives – or, I hasten to add, husbands – and neglected children. Not to mention the good friends never made.

It is all well known. You have heard it all before.

Ambition also tends to drive us to want to be seen as successful.

Of course, there are people everywhere who quietly succeed in their endeavours without any need to blow their own trumpet. But that is not the most common pattern.

And this makes for a heightened emotional atmosphere much of the time.

It is not simply a quiet barbecue among friends – it is a chance for each successful person to let the others know about the triumphs in their lives. The same goes on at dinner parties or down at the pub. It is human nature to let others know.

Again, you have heard it all before.

As ambition comes to a natural end

But what happens when ambition dries up or simply comes to a natural end?

You composed that amazing symphony or made it to the top of the greasy pole. Perhaps there is another symphony to be written or another pole to climb.

But eventually, whether satisfied or not, you reach the point where you slow down or stop altogether. You look around and start to think about other things and other people.

And, alongside such changes, you probably become nicer.

Being nice

It was my mother who noticed it first, years ago. She and my father had moved into a new retirement home and, after a suitable interval, I asked what the other people were like.

She said old people tended to be very nice, especially men, because they no longer had so much ambition. I can’t remember whether she elaborated hugely on the comment, but it made me think.

Niceness is an under-rated virtue. The very word somehow implies something innocuous and uninteresting. We value it in our friends, of course, but it is rarely on the top of the attributes we commend in people.

We tend to note their talents or their achievements and niceness is seen as an add-on, something that comes along with other attributes.

But the older I get, the more I see the importance of this quality – it represents thoughtfulness, kindness and a willingness to go the extra mile.

It does not bring any kudos, but it makes the world a so much more agreeable place.

My parents’ retirement home was full of professional people. There were said to be 17 former doctors, including three or four brain surgeons.

There were former journalists, former teachers and, surprisingly, quite a few moderately successful artists. But the emphasis was on the word ‘former’.

Yes, some of the writers were still writing and some of the artists were still painting, but on the whole, they had moved on.

And in the course of doing so, they had become just ‘people’.

Once ambition is removed from a person’s thinking, the landscape changes. Other people are not some form of competition, but just someone with whom to complain about the terrible weather.

You share a beer or a glass of wine and talk about football or the book you are reading. Even when you talk about more contentious issues, such as politics, it is other people’s success or failure you are talking about.

It is a big change!

The joys of growing older

So, one of the real joys of growing older is the diminishing ambition of everyone you meet.

Yes, people still complain. Yes, people still talk about themselves, whether their own latest health crisis or their excitement over a new grandchild.

But it is so restful when the matter of status has been removed.

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

This article was first published on SixtyandMe.com

Three weeks or so ago, I had that old familiar bitter-sweet pang of regret. Not really serious – and it never lasts very long. Nor does it happen often. Perhaps once every six or eight years.

It’s not exactly real pain. Just a sense of melancholy. A thought of what might have been.

West Side Story

The trigger for this regret was our first trip to a movie in two years. And what a fabulous choice – the remake of West Side Story.

To avoid crowds, we went at 10.00 a.m. on a Monday morning before Christmas. We figured everybody would be busy with last minute work or shopping.

We were right. Only 10 people in the whole theatre. It felt safe.

And it is brilliant. I loved the original movie, especially the beginning where the apparently random lines slowly morph into New York City. No one who has lived in New York could watch that without a warm glow inside.

But this one surpassed that movie in almost every way. Both the singing and dancing were brilliant. So full of verve. So full of feeling.

And it used the City of New York with true originality. If I may offer one spoiler, it even went to the Cloisters, that completely improbable spot at the northern tip of Manhattan that seems to be straight out of medieval France.

We walked out in that spirit of excitement that a good movie can engender, especially one full of Leonard Bernstein’s music.

Plus, in my case, that pang of regret.

Dancing school

What few people know, even many of my friends, is that I once wanted to be a dancer.

My parents sent me to dancing school from the age of four until I was nine, when we moved from Washington, D.C to New York. I was taught to master the five ballet positions and much else about dancing that I have long forgotten.

Most of all, I learned to enjoy the feeling of movement in my body and the joy of working with a rhythm. Even as a child, it made me feel very alive.

I was well trained by the age of nine.

My lost career

Although I always loved ballet, I don’t think that is where my dreams took me.

As soon as I saw all those musicals developed in the 1950s, that is where my heart lay. The King and I, Oklahoma, South Pacific and even Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Many others. I had the records and knew the songs off by heart.

I belonged in them.

Unfortunately – or, in hindsight, fortunately – my life took another turn.

I never had dancing lessons again. I was so busy acclimatising to all the changes that a move at that age entails that I didn’t even ask about them for about six months. When I did, my mother said that the dancing teacher had told her my body was stiff and I could never be very good.

(Much later, I was told by a dancer friend that being stiff is something any devoted dancer can overcome with a bit of work. No reason to stop a career. But by then, it was way too late.)

I moved on, I was good at schoolwork and found many new interests. I did a degree, then another and eventually ended up with a PhD.

I spent my life using my brain – researching and writing. It has been a good life; I have loved what I did and still do.

I rarely stop and think about that lost dancing career. And when I do, I think of all the physical pain involved, all the difficult rehearsals and, if successful, the demands of travel which necessarily impinge drastically on family responsibilities.

And, like the little boy who wants to be a footballer, I need to remind myself that the probability of my ever making a success of such a career was very, very small. I would never have made it to the big screen.

The regret

Yes, the regret is extremely rare. It is a fantasy that I am much too practical to contemplate very often.

But once in a while, when I see a movie like West Side Story, I want to say, “Wait a minute, I’m supposed to be in there, dancing like there is no tomorrow.”

This was first 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