The truth about strength

On getting weaker in a hostile world, plus Penny Mordaunt's bonkers turn as Brexit She-Ra.

‘I really must text Madame Razz back.’

I don’t know whether it’s because I’m a writer or simply something of a drama queen, but completing mundane of tasks sends my imagination rocketing into the air or burrowing into unhelpful spirals. Sometimes these out-of-body experiences take the form of nostalgia trips, or fictitious mazes of ‘imagine if X happened’ and other counterfactual scenarios, and sometimes they give me glimpses of the future. These are the ones I like the least.

I was opening milk. We get the big… I hesitate to call them cartons because that brings to mind the tiny cardboard tetra-paks with useless foldout wings that would never unfurl properly and send the milk spilling everywhere… see? I can’t help myself. Anyway, the big cartons, the plastic ones. Safety rightly dictates these cartons should be hermetically sealed, usually with a tiny foil cap at the opening, which usually has a small flap to pull – although sometimes it doesn’t and I must chip away at it with what remains of my fingernails. Boys, I’m a biter, what can I say? The safety caps are tightly welded to the carton, and while you wouldn’t need a team of wrestlers to line up behind you in a tug of war to wrench it off, it takes a little effort to get enough purchase to confidently pull back the flap. And maybe it’s my imagination, but it’s getting a little harder to do every time. Similarly, popping pills out of blister packs or negotiating with jar lids or screw caps or child safety tops on cleaning products. It’s doable, I’m relatively strong, and I have determination – as my ground-down back teeth will attest – but I can never get out of my mind that one day, this will be much more difficult for me. One day, I might not be able to get the top off the milk at all. A sharp tip of a very deep, chilling iceberg.

I’m acutely aware that, for many people, my peek into the crystal ball of a (hopefully) far-off tomorrow is a living reality that’s very much today. The elderly, and the lesser-abled, will be reading this thinking, ‘No sh*t, honey, nice of you to finally catch up’. Obviously I was always aware of these discrepancies, but in typical fashion, thought it would never apply to me, that I’d always be able to race everywhere I went, that heaving boxes and shopping bags around would never cause even the slightest dip in breath. I’ve long been aware, too, of the inequalities of public transport – the Tube is actually shocking if you think about it for more than even a few seconds, so many stairs – and the lack of provision generally, everywhere, for anyone with less than optimum mobility. (Pubs, for example, who use accessible loos as storage cupboards or hang ‘out of order’ signs on wheelchair lifts and never do anything about it.) I was really annoyed, too, by the strand of discourse that slated supermarkets for selling prepared food – chopped vegetables, for example – as ‘lazy’ when they helped so many people have access to meals that might be otherwise closed off to them. But one of the greatest human curses is that the fastest path to true empathy is proximity to the issue, so the problem of my own strength, and how I’d survive without it, has opened my eyes wider than ever.

The world favours the strong and the able; physical strength is one of your greatest defence mechanisms, but it’s not available to all. I’ve paid so much attention to fending off the aesthetic deterioration, perhaps, that I assumed everything under the bonnet would take care of itself. Without going into detail, over the last few years, I’ve had a couple of frustrating, and, at times, debilitating ongoing health issues that compromised my energy and strength. It’s changed both my perspective of my body and also what I’m willing to put it through. Bouts of covid – I held out until summer 2022 and, in retaliation, it saw fit to absolutely floor me – haven’t helped either. I wonder if my increased frustration is down to feeling like I’d only just got used to this version of myself. When I was young, I remember my grandma telling me she didn't feel old inside, that she still felt like a teenager – which checked out given some of her antics – but I didn't understand. How could you feel the same when your body is so much older, I wondered, the sweet, clueless child who was yet to hear the internal creaks and gurgles of a sophisticated machine on the fritz. Now I get it, what’s left of my mind is as keen as ever – albeit lightly toasted by covid – and furious that the body refuses to comply.

Just yesterday I was up on the Walworth Road running an errand and was stopped by the very definition of a little old lady using a wheelchair as a walking frame, asking if I knew where the Santander bank was. (I didn’t, I had to look it up on my phone for her.) She was pretty frail, but I could see her mind active and racing; I got the impression she really hadn’t wanted to ask. (It turned out it was on the opposite side of the road so she’d missed it as she walked past.) I walked with her across the road, watching her take her sweet time as cabs and buses thundered toward her, before she thanked me politely – calling me sweetheart, which I love – and sent me on my way, making it clear that now she had my directions she could find it herself. I’ve always hated the way old people are patronised, talked over, usually in a voice you might reserve for babies, their opinions and desires dismissed, so I did as I was told, giving her a cheery wave. And even though I’d already decided to cover this topic in this week’s newsletter, it set me off thinking, yet again, will I be brave enough to do that when I’m old? What if nobody wants to help me? What if I need to run away from someone? Signs of weakness are exploited at every turn; how will I hide mine?

I’ll never be able to twirl a Nissan Micra above my head, and my gun-show is more of a pea-shooter exhibition, but I do what I can to keep my strength up. I exercise. I eat okay. I do yoga (badly) and throw the odd weight around. I had to give up the gym because I moved too far from my (amazing) old one and I lasted one session at the local gym because it was full of men with muscular, waffle-cone bodies glaring at me and the women trying to hide from them in corners. I’m looking for another.

The current default public perception of older generations is frothing boomers hankering after a blitz they never saw and voting for maniacs that would have their ancestors hanging their heads in shame, but often with age comes a loss of agency along with the diminishing strength. I do not live in a country that celebrates the sensitive or the fragile; they are viewed as inconveniences. Perhaps this is why I feel uneasy; I can’t see things getting any better. I often wonder if there’s more I can do to future-proof myself, physically and mentally. Until I think of something, I’ll just have to keep swinging those kettlebells, reining in my imagination, and appreciating the strength I have while it’s here.

Before we carry on:
– catch up with my latest review of the Guardian Blind Date, it was two lovely boys and they got drunk
– get my latest novel for 99p on ebook, or…
– preorder the paperback, out 18 May!
Thanks.

Right, on with the show:

ENCORE: ABBEY CRUNCH

Speaking of strength, must we lionise Penny Mordaunt’s turn as a kind of Brexit She-Ra, inching up and down the nave at Westminster Abbey with her collection of Franklin Mint ceremonial swords, her outfit giving off extreme ‘Leia Organa’s least favourite handmaiden presides over the buffet at a Tatooine christening’ energy?