Old Folks Homes

Lucy’s column for May 13, 2008
Agelo..1
Many years ago, my friend Granny Annie Colville and I made a pact that when we were knocking on a bit, and our better halves had shuffled off to that beer-and-skittles Utopia in the sky, we’d move in together.
Not only that, we also had our "carers" lined up – her daughter Deborah, and my friend Rose Kennedy, who’d cook, clean, pander to our every whim, and make themselves scarce should we want to be alone. Though we’ve never got round to letting them know our plans for their future. It was, we agreed, the soft option, compared with spending our remaining years in an old people’s home, sitting in a semi-circle with a telly blaring away in one corner, and a budgie twittering in another, watching the kids’ inheritance drift away as we snoozed from one meal to the next.
We’d have a weekly visit from our hairdresser Julie Skivington, a monthly one from a chiropodist we’d call a pedicurist in that she’d paint our toe-nails as well as cut them and wrestle with crippling corns, buy all our food from Marks and Spencer’s, and have gin delivered by the crate-load. But it’s all pie-in-the-sky, of course.
We can’t even agree on where we want to live. While I fancy a luxury flat with big windows and little window-boxes, and the sort of security system which sifts out any visitors, Granny Annie insists on a bungalow because she needs her beloved garden, with easy access to all and sundry so that she can indulge one of her many hobbies. Talking.
Even the proposed décor causes consternation. She’s brown leather, with crimson curtains and sensible lighting. I’m more your chintz and cherubs and chaise longues. Besides which, Annie’s dead bossy in the kitchen – shaker-style for me, stainless steel for her – and wouldn’t allow me within an inch of the stove because she thinks she’s the only one who can cook. So no prizes for guessing who’d end up with her hands permanently in the sink.
And although I’m with her when it comes to home-made soup and stock pots, and her waste-not-want-not ideology, even I have been known to baulk at her imaginative ways with leftover potatoes, especially after three days. And while I’d also run the risk of being pulled out of bed at the crack of dawn every day to go swimming, Annie would be loathe to go along with my idea of entertainment bliss – an afternoon on the sofa, watching a soppy film, followed by Flog It with the dishy Paul Martin.
But there’s already another option on the cards. I’ve recently read about a retirement village being built on the site of an old Pontins holiday camp, nestling between Lancaster and Morcambe, offering bungalows, apartments and cottages to the fifty-five-plus age group, and boasting all sorts of facilities and activities.
They include tennis courts, a bowling green, pool, spa facilities and treatment rooms, and a dizzying number of classes, courses and quizzes, all topped off with nights spent strutting your stuff doing the salsa and the samba round the ballroom floor.
This is retirement Florida-style – yes, the idea comes from the sunshine state – and promises both practical and emotional support to the silver surfers and golden oldies in their midst. It may be some people’s idea of shangri-la, but to me, it smacks of the kind of discipline, joining in, forced friendships, my-net-curtains-are-whiter-than-yours attitude, which I would abhor.
Then there’s always the idea put forward by granddaughter Grace a couple of years ago : "When you’re old and tired, grandma, you can come and live in our garage, because you’ll still be good fun." Which would suit me just fine, but I don’t think she’s passed that one by her parents yet.
Much more appealing is the route offered in that famous Jenny Joseph poem, When I’m Old I Will Wear Purple, which tells of, after a lifetime of towing the line, paying the rent, not swearing in the street, setting a good example to the children, an elderly woman going slightly bonkers.

Agelo..2
She dreams of spending her pension on brandy, summer gloves and satin sandals, gobbling up samples in shops – which some of us do already at Costco – eating three pounds of sausages at one go, or only bread and pickles for a week. She yearns to press alarm bells, run her stick along public railings, and learn to spit.
Since I’m not a born eccentric, it’s going to take a bit of practice to get into that dotty frame of mind, so don’t be surprised to see me picking flowers from other people’s gardens, or shuffling around in slippers in the rain. I’m going to start with a trip to Costco. And on the way back, I may just treat myself to a purple frock and red hat. Coming with me, Grace?
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