Dear Holly,
I’d like to start by saying that I’m not even sure what constitutes a life term, and I’m a little vague after all this time about the terms of the tenancy, but there is one thing I am certain of, and that in a nutshell is this; Its' jolly well not cricket.
Now, as I say, I don’t remember being shown the contract, but I know that if I had been I would have taken on board the bit about ageing. And as I think I may have mentioned before, I distinctly remember being sixteen because it was only yesterday. I was surrounded by those who, like me, wore the same unblemished, indeed unfinished, cloak of youth, and I don’t think that it ever occurred to any of us that the cloak was not ours to keep, and that it was, in fact, due to slip unnoticed from our busy shoulders sooner rather than later.
I only mention this (again) because today marked my old friend Peter’s sixtieth birthday. It just doesn’t seem possible. Of course Peter has acted swiftly, as any responsible member of the community would, and reported the theft of his forty or so years to the local police. They have told him that there is little or no chance of recovering his loss or indeed, of apprehending the perpetrator. It transpires that this is not an isolated case, and that in fact there are thousands of these thefts going undetected every single day! It only goes to show what an extraordinarily clever thief time is.
Anyway, he (Peter that is, not the thief) has decided to mark the occasion by allowing his wife, Wendy, to buy him a consolation dinner at McDonalds before spending a night out on the town. After these two events have taken place to his full satisfaction he will allow the evening to culminate in, what I believe is now referred to as, a full service. Yes, Peter is magnanimous, and no, Peter is not religious. (When you are old enough I will get your mother to explain to you the concept of going out with a bang and a wimpy.)
Actually, they are all at it, birthday celebrations that is. My bookshelves are currently groaning under the accumulative weight of a veritable avalanche of determinedly upbeat invites, all bidding me to come taste the vintage. For months in advance, and on a wave of enthusiasm that, quite frankly, I find to be most admirable, halls are secured, bands booked and caterers contacted as some old cove or another prepares to celebrate the fact that he or she has managed to stagger into their sixtieth year with all the faculties more or less intact. What gives me pause to wonder, is how we deal with all the space in between.
If we are prepared to accept, momentarily, that our life is like a shooting gallery with our achievable aims as the various targets, birthdays, Christmas, exam results etc, strategically placed along its entire length, and we with the bow and arrows of opportunity standing at the firing line, what do we see? Well, actually very little if you think about it. If we are standing at January and sighting our arrow for somewhere in May then we cannot see February through April at all. Now obviously this is a little simplistic, but the fact remains that we do tend to ignore normal, everyday days. Criminally.
For as long as I have left I will remember gazing into a mirror at a face I no longer recognized and, with trembling hand, guiding an NHS disposable razor around the new contours and violently hued and puckered scarring of my reconfigured visage. The sense of elation that accompanied this simple act cannot be overstated. It was, and the wonder is in the word, normal. I’m not joking, it really is that simple. It was the start for me of what I can only describe as a flowering, it was as if somebody had removed the blinkers after years of restricted viewing. What we always fail to recognize is that we are only given ‘normal’ for a season, for however long that may be, and we ignore it at our peril.
Being something of a trendsetter I decided to have my sixtieth birthday last year and celebrated it by getting up and going to work. And if you are thinking that this falls someway short of a celebration you would be wrong. The truth is that ever since my ops and illnesses every day is a celebration, every day I am given is a cause for celebration, and oh boy, do I celebrate. I never leave my flat in the morning without feeling the absolute joy that being able to participate in the normal round gives me. I never drive my bus out of the yard without being filled with an acute sense of pleasure at the thought of the upcoming day. And the act of being allowed to interact with the world at large is, quite simply, a privilege.
And here is the great bit, normal moments are not difficult to find. They are, by their very nature, an extremely gregarious specie, you will find whole bunches of them hanging around together, and not being given to shyness they are very easy to domesticate. Learning to recognize the true beauty of the ‘normal’ means learning to live in the here and now. Learning to live in the here and now makes your life a true celebration of the same. The only inconvenience is having to adjust to really long party hours. I never send out invitations to these daily celebrations, but I would however, love you to join me.
By-by Holly
l’n’s
Chris Wilson White
