And so, as the first week of fiftyhood hobbles to a close, it’s time to review how life has changed so far…
I’ve not yet taken out my subscription to Saga Magazine, thank god. But two things happened this week that made me stop and think. The trouble is, they seem to be highlighting moves in opposite directions.
The first came when I was running through Prospect Park on Wednesday.
Struggling along one steep path, I ran alongside a
bowling green where a gang of older chaps were standing over a constellation of bowls, deep in analysis. Perhaps you have to be 50 to pick up on it — something about the tree-fringed setting, the twilit
incandescence of the green, the apparent culture of agreeable disagreement. It made a mark on me. And the skill involved tweaked the competitive streak in me. It wasn’t a moment of revelation, because I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve
liked this game for years. Subtler than that, like a mild gust shivering through a distant wind chime. The clincher
was a sign propped against the gate: WANT TO LEARN ABOUT BOWLS? COME ALONG TO OUR OPEN DAY ON JULY 22nd. I’ll confess to having often watched, and been absorbed by, the televised World Bowls Championship, thinking I’d like to have a go. This could be my big opportunity. If I can slip across there without anyone knowing, I might just chance my arm.
If this is a slightly embarrassing confession, arguably a worse one is about to follow. A little more street cred, but that’s the problem. At what age, should we start to move away from trying to cling to our youth (whoever he or she may be)? The truth is, I jettisoned most of that mindset quite a while ago. It’s a natural move. I suppose that stable relationships and marriage, and having to get up in the morning to cultivate a career, move most of us away from frantic pursuit of the opposite sex (or whatever your thing happens to be), and the excess that gets attached to it.
I’ve never been a clubber. Or not since university days, when visits to the Swinging Sporran (sic), the Cypress Tavern, or any of those late-night dives in Central Manchester were as regular as the rainfall in that great city. It was the chance to drink, rather than dance, all night that drew us there.
Going to see recklessly loud and discordant guitar bands was a habit that stuck with me much longer, enduring even through my long dalliance with the Yorkshire folk club scene in the nineties. You tend never to renounce the music you cut your teeth on, even when those same teeth are starting to vanish.
I read recently of a middle-aged craze shuffling its way across the USA. While their worried sons hold the ladder, guys in their 40s, 50s and 60s are creeping up into the loft to retrieve their redundant axes. Those old valve amps in the garage that have been used as work-bench supports for thirty years, are being dusted down and dragged out. Then they congregate and thrash out an hour or two
of rock ‘n’ roll to enrich and excite their mid-lives. I like this idea.
My little-used Fender Stratocaster has been winking at me recently. An electric guitar isn’t much fun on its own, and I never did find (or look for) others to play with. It was a medicinal purchase more a musical one, perhaps. I’d get home from work, plug it in, stick the headphones on, and thrash out some distorted 12-bar blues or a few power chords, then put it down again. It helped
to remove the day from my head.
But I’ve not done that for years. I’m not ready to get together with others to play. I may never want to. But I did discover an interesting gadget a while ago that might give me some fun. The Rifftracker. You plug it into a PC, pick a drum track, and off you thrash. Or you can jam along with Hendrix and Led Zeppelin, or pretty much anyone else. Move over Jimi and Jimmy, there’s a new bad boy in town. Gulp, is that the time? Nearly ready for my Omega 3 supplement…
Excellent run this evening. 6½ sprightly miles along the canal, chewing flies most of the way. Track du Jour : Idiot Wind from His Bobness. This is hard core Dylan.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move
your mouth,
Blowing down the backroads headin’ south.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You’re an idiot, babe.
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe
Great stuff. Could have been written about me.
In the meantime, I have a decision to make. What’s it to be — genteel evenings on the bowling green, then home to a glass of amontillado and an early night? Or will I be snorting a line or two of Sanatogen before heading round to the back room at the The Red Lion with the Strat under my arm?
