‘…. and then there’s my hip…’
I managed a nod. I tried to add a smile but at best it was rueful, at worst gas-backed. Some of my friends are ageing well both physically and mentally, some one and not the other. But even those who catalogue their accomplishments on road and court with unseemly relish know that, sooner rather than later:
- that the something that gives is not her resistance but your back;
- that when the light shines from your eyes it is caused not by your ardour but the reflection from the optician’s torch;
- that the hair you had as a teenager is still there only differently distributed; and
- that what once caused rapture now leads to rupture.
So, when we meet the conversation slides towards a listing of the aliments, a sort of competitive self diagnosis. And boy can that be tedious.
But help is at hand. A friend of a friend has instigated the
Ten Minute Organ Recital
which gives each participant no more than five minutes to debrief the other on the latest in a possibly long line of physical, mental and emotional misfortunes that has befallen them since the last meeting and, once the time is up, the music stops and the conversation moves on.
I think this is very sound, which is more than can be said for my spleen which, you know, has been making this chunking noise, a bit like the big end on my first car…