Growing Old Disgracefully
There was lots of drinking, almost as much eating and some dancing. ("What are you DOING?" My brother cried as he walked into the room. "Oh my GOD! Have you all lost it??" My father answered with shouts of "Yeah baby!", and dragged him by the hand into the Centre of Action. "Do your Mick Jagger dance!", he ordered my brother, who became all of a sudden very interested in lighting tealights.)
A few dozen wine and champagne bottles later, and the older people were slumped deep into their chairs and sofas, discussing their Growing Old Disgracefully plan, one which involves the buying of a seven bedroomed house overlooking the Brampton Park. "A commune! We can have rotas pinned up to the fridge!" My mother exclaimed. She was undoubtedly thinking of her many youthful commune experiences, and the loving notes regarding household chores adorning kitchen appliances - "The yoghurt on the bottom shelf is mine" or "It's Manfred's turn to put out the bins this week."
The others nodded vigourously and with much seriousness. Then spent an hour or so allocating roles to each commune member.
("Martin, you can do the music. And we need someone who knows about medicine. John, you be Master of Ceremonies. You can organise the parties. Of which there will be many!" They laughed uproarously, until they forgot what had been so funny.)
A while later, they mooted the reactions of their families. "Our children will distance themselves," one said thoughtfully. "We will behave so badly, they will be driven away. We can shout abuse at the people in the park. And ridicule the people getting married at the registry office just down the road. We'll be issued with ASBOs. They looked thoughtful as one. "They will be ashamed of us. And when the smell of incontinence starts drifting down the road, they will no longer dare to enter. They'll leave food parcels on the doorstep."
The young people in the room nodded, and my father shouted "Free love!", his head lolling drunkenly against the back of the sofa.
I partially blame myself. It was the book I bought my mother for Christmas that did it - Warning: When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple.
A few dozen wine and champagne bottles later, and the older people were slumped deep into their chairs and sofas, discussing their Growing Old Disgracefully plan, one which involves the buying of a seven bedroomed house overlooking the Brampton Park. "A commune! We can have rotas pinned up to the fridge!" My mother exclaimed. She was undoubtedly thinking of her many youthful commune experiences, and the loving notes regarding household chores adorning kitchen appliances - "The yoghurt on the bottom shelf is mine" or "It's Manfred's turn to put out the bins this week."
The others nodded vigourously and with much seriousness. Then spent an hour or so allocating roles to each commune member.
("Martin, you can do the music. And we need someone who knows about medicine. John, you be Master of Ceremonies. You can organise the parties. Of which there will be many!" They laughed uproarously, until they forgot what had been so funny.)
A while later, they mooted the reactions of their families. "Our children will distance themselves," one said thoughtfully. "We will behave so badly, they will be driven away. We can shout abuse at the people in the park. And ridicule the people getting married at the registry office just down the road. We'll be issued with ASBOs. They looked thoughtful as one. "They will be ashamed of us. And when the smell of incontinence starts drifting down the road, they will no longer dare to enter. They'll leave food parcels on the doorstep."
The young people in the room nodded, and my father shouted "Free love!", his head lolling drunkenly against the back of the sofa.
I partially blame myself. It was the book I bought my mother for Christmas that did it - Warning: When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple.
kiwiqueen - 1. Jan, 14:34
