Katharine Whitehorn at home in north London.
Photograph: Martin Argles
Being 80 is the moment of truth. This is the moment when you can no longer think of yourself as "promising", when you can no longer huffily say "elderly", or use the dread phrase "I'm 78 years young." You are old.
Being old is not necessarily awful. My 95- year-old aunt says, "Oh, the 80s were fine." I recently came across a card she wrote when she was 89 which said: "I've bought a new car, I've had a blood transfusion and I've booked our next summer holiday. But don't worry, I'll be back in time for my 90th birthday."
It is not all a bundle of laughs, though. You - I mean we - have to accept that there are wrinkles or bulges or sags; well, a few may not have them, but most of us do. It's always a question at a school or a college reunion whether it's more depressing to see Helen Mirren lookalikes, who make you feel you should be trying a whole lot harder, or crumbling old people your age who make you think, "Oh God, that's how old I really am." You are unlikely to charm anyone at a party with the melting invitation of your smile, and you're preoccupied with wondering about a hearing aid, considering a cataract operation, being begged by your children to hold on to the banister going down stairs.
Ah, the children. Or rather the young, since so many of our age either haven't got children, or they live hundreds of miles away, or don't get on with them anyway. What has fundamentally changed, between my generation and that of our parents, is that the dependence of one generation on another - either way round - is negotiable, not laid down. The old used to advise the young, but technology has reversed the equation, and it's the young who teach the old how to cope with the newfangled mechanisms of modern life. (I couldn't be writing this if my son hadn't kindly endured a wholly tiresome two hours sorting out my errant laptop.)
There's no denying that the over-80s are terribly concerned about health. When you're younger you mostly think that if something's wrong with you, they fix it and you're back to normal. Not at our age. We have a hip problem; OK, they give us a new one, which may have us dancing around like Fred Astaire (though probably not like Ginger Rogers, who did everything he did only backwards and in high heels), but it may mean a stick from then on. We don't necessarily expect our small ailments to go away - just to be treatable. Pills are our daily diet. The health service, having switched, in the words of the great Sir George Godber (the brilliant chief medical officer in the 1960s), from emphasising care to concentrating on treatment, is probably going to be quite good at treating the burgeoning over-80s. But we'll have a hard time finding anywhere to recover, when there are no convalescent homes and we're regarded as bed-blockers in hospitals. I've had women write to my Saga magazine agony column saying they've got plenty of women friends, but would so like to meet a man because they're sick of talking about health all the time. (I tell them to stop hoping to bump into a literate widower and join the University of the Third Age, a self-help organisation providing courses and companionship, which simply didn't exist in the olden days.)
I don't need to labour the fact that there is going to be a crisis when the diminishing number of young are asked to prop up the pensions of the vast expanding army of the old; it seems perfectly obvious that the old are going to have to work longer, and I would be astounded if anyone under 60 thought anyone older should be able to just sit back and put their feet up at their expense.
So the question of work is crucial. The days when you were at work by your early 20s at latest, rose to some sort of seniority or expertise by 45, and retired at 60 or so are obviously over. It probably isn't reasonable any more to think of each of us having just one career or skill - especially if we went into it in the first place mainly through lack of an available alternative. We badly need many more chances and grants for older people to retrain, reassess, rethink or switch skills. I had a great aunt who wanted to go to university; her father didn't approve so she waited till he died and then went at 40. Later she wished to study art in Paris, but had to wait until she was 60 and her disapproving mother had died. That wouldn't work today, because both Mama and Papa would live too long; and maybe by then she would be a bit old for student life in Paris. But maybe not: art is one of the things enjoyed by thousands of pensioners, and there must be more indifferent water colours around Europe today than when sketching was the only thing a polite young lady should do.
What do we - the old - want or need? A reason to get up in the morning - collecting dolls, washing the dog, deadheading the roses, protesting against ... what? Oh, come on, there's always something to protest about - a Guardian reader shouldn't need to ask. We need something we can use for money, and we need people. Family maybe; neighbours perhaps; members of the book group or the cricket club (you can always do the scoring); other people who are also barmy about cats - and maybe someone to love. You can't count on that, of course - but can anyone? What we want and need is not, when you come to think of it, much different from what anyone wants - it may just be harder to find. But a recent survey suggested that the old are actually happier than the middle-aged; so there could be a good time coming.
________________________________________
Syd Lissner, 80, lives in north London
________________________________________
When I was a lad, the main difference was that we were much more family-orientated. Even though I grew up through the war, and was evacuated and separated from my brother and sister, society still had this thing called unity, which you don't have today. Now people only see the grey hair when they look at an older person, not the person inside. I think younger people expect us oldies not to know about sex and drugs, and that doesn't bother me - but when I was younger, I was a musician and I smoked a few joints.
Older people are written off and neglected, but I don't really feel any different. I get up at 5.30am every day and do a workout in the garden, then some meditation. I go swimming and do Pilates and the housework. I feel fit, so I have nothing to complain about. I go to the Turkish baths once a week - they call me the Senile Hooligan as a joke. I think doing exercise every day gives you more confidence and you get to meet other active people. They say, "Oh, you old git, still doing it?" and that's encouraging. I think if other older people got that sort of encouragement they would be happier exercising too.
I joined the merchant navy when I was 15 and I worked all my life. You name it, I've done it. I worked until I was 79 at Hatton Garden [London's jewellery quarter]. At first, it's a great psychological change to give up work, and unless you take a positive attitude you begin to wonder what you're living for, but I don't really mind being retired. I go to the library and try to keep mentally healthy. I used to read one book a year, but now I read two a week and the papers from front to back. I've been with my wife since the 1960s and I'm lucky - you do need companionship.
I haven't really noticed that there are more people in their 80s now, but it does worry me if people think we're going to be a burden on the state. Lots of pensioners are struggling and have to choose between eating or putting the heating on. When I turned 80, the government gave me an extra 25p a week on my pension - that's going to make me the last of the big spenders, isn't it?
By this age, I think you're more understanding and tolerant. You have a fixed income with your pension so you live your life around that. I could go on for another 10 years, or another day, so it's not really worth worrying about anything, is it?
Andy Servin, 83, lives in east London
Younger people can be patronising to old people - they think we haven't lived, even though over the last 80 years we've probably seen a lot more than they ever have or will. I don't think people give older people the same respect that they used to. When I first came to this country people would say good morning to older people in the street.
I arrived from St Lucia in 1959, and while I know a lot of people experience racism, people were very nice to me. I had been a policeman in St Lucia, but when I came to Britain I worked for London Underground, then the Post Office. Everyone was interested in where I had come from and asked how I was dealing with the cold. Now older people are sometimes frightened to walk down the street, and that makes me sad.
I have noticed there are more older people around now. We are living longer, aren't we? These days, it's my health that causes me problems, not my age - I have a hernia but my doctor isn't sure if my heart would survive an operation. I can't complain, though. I'm still around. I'm growing old, but not gracefully, I'm sorry to say. I go to the Hibiscus community centre twice a week, because it's important to get out and see friends, be sociable - it keeps your mind young. I come here, play dominoes, have a chat, make some noise. If you've got a group of West Indies men together, you will get a lot of noise.
I'm lucky that I'm still with my wife - her health isn't good either, but at least we're sinking together. I saw a few of my Post Office friends recently and we were talking about the old days and how not many of us are still around now. As I say, I'm lucky. I've been alive a long time. I've had a good life and I've enjoyed every minute of it.
__________________________________________
Helen Granville, 86, lives near Beverley in Yorkshire
__________________________________________
I've been on my own for 25 years, since my husband died, and I've got used to it. I worked in our fish-and-chip shop for 30 years and when I retired, started volunteering at the Cancer Research shop, where I've been for 21 years. I used to work there four or five times a week, but I broke my wrist recently so I haven't been able to drive and had to cut down my hours. Apart from the fact that I enjoy it and like the people, it gets me out of the house. I don't know why old people stay at home all day and mope.
I would like to have been a teacher but my father died down the mine when I was nine and I had to leave school and make money for the family. Until recently, I taught English to immigrants, though, which I enjoyed.
I wouldn't like to be starting out in life again in today's climate - a lady came into the shop the other day in a state because someone had stolen her purse. When I look back on my life, I do wonder what I've done with it but I'm happy - I have three children and grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. Apart from my two new hips and a broken wrist, I'm not in too bad shape really. Since my husband died, I've taken on a lot of responsibilities - just things that he dealt with around the house and with the car, so I'm learning new things even at an older age. I took up writing when I was 82. I write little ditties. But I wouldn't call them poetry exactly.
_________________________________________
Dr Irving Gilbert, 92, lives in a care home in south London
_________________________________________
I can't believe I'm 92 - I put it down to luck and a good set of chromosomes. I smoked for a while when I was a student, but I haven't for years now. I moved to my nursing home, Nightingale, last year. It was sad to leave my house - I had lived in it for 50 years - and especially my garden. When you reach 92, you find that you've lost most of your friends and you're suddenly all alone. You go through an initial period of shock while you establish a new life, but I do like it here. There are always people milling about and there's no need to be lonely. They do activities and outings and I joined a computer class and have learned to use the internet and email. I'm very proud of that.
These days I am physically restricted - I have to use a wheelchair if I'm going somewhere. I'm also very forgetful, but I think I'm probably allowed to be. I never think about the future. I just live every day and enjoy it. You have more perspective as you get older. You realise that the most important thing is your health, whereas before people might have thought it was money.
I was a consultant physician, an endoscopist, and I was there when the NHS started in 1948.It was very exciting - morale was high. When you were 65, you were automatically retired. I carried on as a locum until I was 71 and, by then, the NHS was in a sorry state. If I see a doctor who is smiling, I know he's retired.
I was married for 64 years, and I don't know what the secret is - probably being tolerant of each other. It's very important to have company. I was lucky enough to meet someone recently who I could talk to. A woman? Of course!
_____________________________________________
Peggy Webb, 84, lives near Peterborough
_____________________________________________
On a good day I feel 22, which was my happiest time as I had just got married - but on a bad day I feel 99. The worst thing about being older is the aches and pains, and the frustration that you can't do as much as you would like. But I am lucky to be living with my daughter and son-in-law, as I never get lonely. I'm deaf and my dog, Suki, is always by my side and works as my ears, which means I can be as independent as I want to be.
Everybody changes along with their circumstances - some mellow like a fine wine and some become more cantankerous. I have always been treated well by almost everybody - people will always offer me a seat, open a door and treat me nicely and with respect. Would I like to start my life again now? No, thanks. I'm pleased to have lived through the years that I have done and I was lucky to have a large close-knit family. It was also nice to be part of a community with a much slower pace of life.
• Interviews by Emine Saner
© Guardian News and Media Limited 2008
August 30, 2008
U.K.: The truth about life after 80
.
LONDON, England (The Guardian), August 29, 2008:
British Life & Society:
Pensioners now outnumber under-16s in Britain - and the over-80s are the fastest-growing age group. But what's life like in your ninth decade? Katharine Whitehorn explains the challenges and rewards that arrive in this stage of life and five people share the pains and pleasures of their old age.
___________________________________________________
By Katharine Whitehorn
Katharine Whitehorn at home in north London.
Photograph: Martin Argles
Being 80 is the moment of truth. This is the moment when you can no longer think of yourself as "promising", when you can no longer huffily say "elderly", or use the dread phrase "I'm 78 years young." You are old.
Being old is not necessarily awful. My 95- year-old aunt says, "Oh, the 80s were fine." I recently came across a card she wrote when she was 89 which said: "I've bought a new car, I've had a blood transfusion and I've booked our next summer holiday. But don't worry, I'll be back in time for my 90th birthday."
It is not all a bundle of laughs, though. You - I mean we - have to accept that there are wrinkles or bulges or sags; well, a few may not have them, but most of us do. It's always a question at a school or a college reunion whether it's more depressing to see Helen Mirren lookalikes, who make you feel you should be trying a whole lot harder, or crumbling old people your age who make you think, "Oh God, that's how old I really am." You are unlikely to charm anyone at a party with the melting invitation of your smile, and you're preoccupied with wondering about a hearing aid, considering a cataract operation, being begged by your children to hold on to the banister going down stairs.
Ah, the children. Or rather the young, since so many of our age either haven't got children, or they live hundreds of miles away, or don't get on with them anyway. What has fundamentally changed, between my generation and that of our parents, is that the dependence of one generation on another - either way round - is negotiable, not laid down. The old used to advise the young, but technology has reversed the equation, and it's the young who teach the old how to cope with the newfangled mechanisms of modern life. (I couldn't be writing this if my son hadn't kindly endured a wholly tiresome two hours sorting out my errant laptop.)
There's no denying that the over-80s are terribly concerned about health. When you're younger you mostly think that if something's wrong with you, they fix it and you're back to normal. Not at our age. We have a hip problem; OK, they give us a new one, which may have us dancing around like Fred Astaire (though probably not like Ginger Rogers, who did everything he did only backwards and in high heels), but it may mean a stick from then on. We don't necessarily expect our small ailments to go away - just to be treatable. Pills are our daily diet. The health service, having switched, in the words of the great Sir George Godber (the brilliant chief medical officer in the 1960s), from emphasising care to concentrating on treatment, is probably going to be quite good at treating the burgeoning over-80s. But we'll have a hard time finding anywhere to recover, when there are no convalescent homes and we're regarded as bed-blockers in hospitals. I've had women write to my Saga magazine agony column saying they've got plenty of women friends, but would so like to meet a man because they're sick of talking about health all the time. (I tell them to stop hoping to bump into a literate widower and join the University of the Third Age, a self-help organisation providing courses and companionship, which simply didn't exist in the olden days.)
I don't need to labour the fact that there is going to be a crisis when the diminishing number of young are asked to prop up the pensions of the vast expanding army of the old; it seems perfectly obvious that the old are going to have to work longer, and I would be astounded if anyone under 60 thought anyone older should be able to just sit back and put their feet up at their expense.
So the question of work is crucial. The days when you were at work by your early 20s at latest, rose to some sort of seniority or expertise by 45, and retired at 60 or so are obviously over. It probably isn't reasonable any more to think of each of us having just one career or skill - especially if we went into it in the first place mainly through lack of an available alternative. We badly need many more chances and grants for older people to retrain, reassess, rethink or switch skills. I had a great aunt who wanted to go to university; her father didn't approve so she waited till he died and then went at 40. Later she wished to study art in Paris, but had to wait until she was 60 and her disapproving mother had died. That wouldn't work today, because both Mama and Papa would live too long; and maybe by then she would be a bit old for student life in Paris. But maybe not: art is one of the things enjoyed by thousands of pensioners, and there must be more indifferent water colours around Europe today than when sketching was the only thing a polite young lady should do.
What do we - the old - want or need? A reason to get up in the morning - collecting dolls, washing the dog, deadheading the roses, protesting against ... what? Oh, come on, there's always something to protest about - a Guardian reader shouldn't need to ask. We need something we can use for money, and we need people. Family maybe; neighbours perhaps; members of the book group or the cricket club (you can always do the scoring); other people who are also barmy about cats - and maybe someone to love. You can't count on that, of course - but can anyone? What we want and need is not, when you come to think of it, much different from what anyone wants - it may just be harder to find. But a recent survey suggested that the old are actually happier than the middle-aged; so there could be a good time coming.
________________________________________
Syd Lissner, 80, lives in north London
________________________________________
When I was a lad, the main difference was that we were much more family-orientated. Even though I grew up through the war, and was evacuated and separated from my brother and sister, society still had this thing called unity, which you don't have today. Now people only see the grey hair when they look at an older person, not the person inside. I think younger people expect us oldies not to know about sex and drugs, and that doesn't bother me - but when I was younger, I was a musician and I smoked a few joints.
Older people are written off and neglected, but I don't really feel any different. I get up at 5.30am every day and do a workout in the garden, then some meditation. I go swimming and do Pilates and the housework. I feel fit, so I have nothing to complain about. I go to the Turkish baths once a week - they call me the Senile Hooligan as a joke. I think doing exercise every day gives you more confidence and you get to meet other active people. They say, "Oh, you old git, still doing it?" and that's encouraging. I think if other older people got that sort of encouragement they would be happier exercising too.
I joined the merchant navy when I was 15 and I worked all my life. You name it, I've done it. I worked until I was 79 at Hatton Garden [London's jewellery quarter]. At first, it's a great psychological change to give up work, and unless you take a positive attitude you begin to wonder what you're living for, but I don't really mind being retired. I go to the library and try to keep mentally healthy. I used to read one book a year, but now I read two a week and the papers from front to back. I've been with my wife since the 1960s and I'm lucky - you do need companionship.
I haven't really noticed that there are more people in their 80s now, but it does worry me if people think we're going to be a burden on the state. Lots of pensioners are struggling and have to choose between eating or putting the heating on. When I turned 80, the government gave me an extra 25p a week on my pension - that's going to make me the last of the big spenders, isn't it?
By this age, I think you're more understanding and tolerant. You have a fixed income with your pension so you live your life around that. I could go on for another 10 years, or another day, so it's not really worth worrying about anything, is it?
Andy Servin, 83, lives in east London
Younger people can be patronising to old people - they think we haven't lived, even though over the last 80 years we've probably seen a lot more than they ever have or will. I don't think people give older people the same respect that they used to. When I first came to this country people would say good morning to older people in the street.
I arrived from St Lucia in 1959, and while I know a lot of people experience racism, people were very nice to me. I had been a policeman in St Lucia, but when I came to Britain I worked for London Underground, then the Post Office. Everyone was interested in where I had come from and asked how I was dealing with the cold. Now older people are sometimes frightened to walk down the street, and that makes me sad.
I have noticed there are more older people around now. We are living longer, aren't we? These days, it's my health that causes me problems, not my age - I have a hernia but my doctor isn't sure if my heart would survive an operation. I can't complain, though. I'm still around. I'm growing old, but not gracefully, I'm sorry to say. I go to the Hibiscus community centre twice a week, because it's important to get out and see friends, be sociable - it keeps your mind young. I come here, play dominoes, have a chat, make some noise. If you've got a group of West Indies men together, you will get a lot of noise.
I'm lucky that I'm still with my wife - her health isn't good either, but at least we're sinking together. I saw a few of my Post Office friends recently and we were talking about the old days and how not many of us are still around now. As I say, I'm lucky. I've been alive a long time. I've had a good life and I've enjoyed every minute of it.
__________________________________________
Helen Granville, 86, lives near Beverley in Yorkshire
__________________________________________
I've been on my own for 25 years, since my husband died, and I've got used to it. I worked in our fish-and-chip shop for 30 years and when I retired, started volunteering at the Cancer Research shop, where I've been for 21 years. I used to work there four or five times a week, but I broke my wrist recently so I haven't been able to drive and had to cut down my hours. Apart from the fact that I enjoy it and like the people, it gets me out of the house. I don't know why old people stay at home all day and mope.
I would like to have been a teacher but my father died down the mine when I was nine and I had to leave school and make money for the family. Until recently, I taught English to immigrants, though, which I enjoyed.
I wouldn't like to be starting out in life again in today's climate - a lady came into the shop the other day in a state because someone had stolen her purse. When I look back on my life, I do wonder what I've done with it but I'm happy - I have three children and grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. Apart from my two new hips and a broken wrist, I'm not in too bad shape really. Since my husband died, I've taken on a lot of responsibilities - just things that he dealt with around the house and with the car, so I'm learning new things even at an older age. I took up writing when I was 82. I write little ditties. But I wouldn't call them poetry exactly.
_________________________________________
Dr Irving Gilbert, 92, lives in a care home in south London
_________________________________________
I can't believe I'm 92 - I put it down to luck and a good set of chromosomes. I smoked for a while when I was a student, but I haven't for years now. I moved to my nursing home, Nightingale, last year. It was sad to leave my house - I had lived in it for 50 years - and especially my garden. When you reach 92, you find that you've lost most of your friends and you're suddenly all alone. You go through an initial period of shock while you establish a new life, but I do like it here. There are always people milling about and there's no need to be lonely. They do activities and outings and I joined a computer class and have learned to use the internet and email. I'm very proud of that.
These days I am physically restricted - I have to use a wheelchair if I'm going somewhere. I'm also very forgetful, but I think I'm probably allowed to be. I never think about the future. I just live every day and enjoy it. You have more perspective as you get older. You realise that the most important thing is your health, whereas before people might have thought it was money.
I was a consultant physician, an endoscopist, and I was there when the NHS started in 1948.It was very exciting - morale was high. When you were 65, you were automatically retired. I carried on as a locum until I was 71 and, by then, the NHS was in a sorry state. If I see a doctor who is smiling, I know he's retired.
I was married for 64 years, and I don't know what the secret is - probably being tolerant of each other. It's very important to have company. I was lucky enough to meet someone recently who I could talk to. A woman? Of course!
_____________________________________________
Peggy Webb, 84, lives near Peterborough
_____________________________________________
On a good day I feel 22, which was my happiest time as I had just got married - but on a bad day I feel 99. The worst thing about being older is the aches and pains, and the frustration that you can't do as much as you would like. But I am lucky to be living with my daughter and son-in-law, as I never get lonely. I'm deaf and my dog, Suki, is always by my side and works as my ears, which means I can be as independent as I want to be.
Everybody changes along with their circumstances - some mellow like a fine wine and some become more cantankerous. I have always been treated well by almost everybody - people will always offer me a seat, open a door and treat me nicely and with respect. Would I like to start my life again now? No, thanks. I'm pleased to have lived through the years that I have done and I was lucky to have a large close-knit family. It was also nice to be part of a community with a much slower pace of life.
• Interviews by Emine Saner
© Guardian News and Media Limited 2008
Katharine Whitehorn at home in north London.
Photograph: Martin Argles
Being 80 is the moment of truth. This is the moment when you can no longer think of yourself as "promising", when you can no longer huffily say "elderly", or use the dread phrase "I'm 78 years young." You are old.
Being old is not necessarily awful. My 95- year-old aunt says, "Oh, the 80s were fine." I recently came across a card she wrote when she was 89 which said: "I've bought a new car, I've had a blood transfusion and I've booked our next summer holiday. But don't worry, I'll be back in time for my 90th birthday."
It is not all a bundle of laughs, though. You - I mean we - have to accept that there are wrinkles or bulges or sags; well, a few may not have them, but most of us do. It's always a question at a school or a college reunion whether it's more depressing to see Helen Mirren lookalikes, who make you feel you should be trying a whole lot harder, or crumbling old people your age who make you think, "Oh God, that's how old I really am." You are unlikely to charm anyone at a party with the melting invitation of your smile, and you're preoccupied with wondering about a hearing aid, considering a cataract operation, being begged by your children to hold on to the banister going down stairs.
Ah, the children. Or rather the young, since so many of our age either haven't got children, or they live hundreds of miles away, or don't get on with them anyway. What has fundamentally changed, between my generation and that of our parents, is that the dependence of one generation on another - either way round - is negotiable, not laid down. The old used to advise the young, but technology has reversed the equation, and it's the young who teach the old how to cope with the newfangled mechanisms of modern life. (I couldn't be writing this if my son hadn't kindly endured a wholly tiresome two hours sorting out my errant laptop.)
There's no denying that the over-80s are terribly concerned about health. When you're younger you mostly think that if something's wrong with you, they fix it and you're back to normal. Not at our age. We have a hip problem; OK, they give us a new one, which may have us dancing around like Fred Astaire (though probably not like Ginger Rogers, who did everything he did only backwards and in high heels), but it may mean a stick from then on. We don't necessarily expect our small ailments to go away - just to be treatable. Pills are our daily diet. The health service, having switched, in the words of the great Sir George Godber (the brilliant chief medical officer in the 1960s), from emphasising care to concentrating on treatment, is probably going to be quite good at treating the burgeoning over-80s. But we'll have a hard time finding anywhere to recover, when there are no convalescent homes and we're regarded as bed-blockers in hospitals. I've had women write to my Saga magazine agony column saying they've got plenty of women friends, but would so like to meet a man because they're sick of talking about health all the time. (I tell them to stop hoping to bump into a literate widower and join the University of the Third Age, a self-help organisation providing courses and companionship, which simply didn't exist in the olden days.)
I don't need to labour the fact that there is going to be a crisis when the diminishing number of young are asked to prop up the pensions of the vast expanding army of the old; it seems perfectly obvious that the old are going to have to work longer, and I would be astounded if anyone under 60 thought anyone older should be able to just sit back and put their feet up at their expense.
So the question of work is crucial. The days when you were at work by your early 20s at latest, rose to some sort of seniority or expertise by 45, and retired at 60 or so are obviously over. It probably isn't reasonable any more to think of each of us having just one career or skill - especially if we went into it in the first place mainly through lack of an available alternative. We badly need many more chances and grants for older people to retrain, reassess, rethink or switch skills. I had a great aunt who wanted to go to university; her father didn't approve so she waited till he died and then went at 40. Later she wished to study art in Paris, but had to wait until she was 60 and her disapproving mother had died. That wouldn't work today, because both Mama and Papa would live too long; and maybe by then she would be a bit old for student life in Paris. But maybe not: art is one of the things enjoyed by thousands of pensioners, and there must be more indifferent water colours around Europe today than when sketching was the only thing a polite young lady should do.
What do we - the old - want or need? A reason to get up in the morning - collecting dolls, washing the dog, deadheading the roses, protesting against ... what? Oh, come on, there's always something to protest about - a Guardian reader shouldn't need to ask. We need something we can use for money, and we need people. Family maybe; neighbours perhaps; members of the book group or the cricket club (you can always do the scoring); other people who are also barmy about cats - and maybe someone to love. You can't count on that, of course - but can anyone? What we want and need is not, when you come to think of it, much different from what anyone wants - it may just be harder to find. But a recent survey suggested that the old are actually happier than the middle-aged; so there could be a good time coming.
________________________________________
Syd Lissner, 80, lives in north London
________________________________________
When I was a lad, the main difference was that we were much more family-orientated. Even though I grew up through the war, and was evacuated and separated from my brother and sister, society still had this thing called unity, which you don't have today. Now people only see the grey hair when they look at an older person, not the person inside. I think younger people expect us oldies not to know about sex and drugs, and that doesn't bother me - but when I was younger, I was a musician and I smoked a few joints.
Older people are written off and neglected, but I don't really feel any different. I get up at 5.30am every day and do a workout in the garden, then some meditation. I go swimming and do Pilates and the housework. I feel fit, so I have nothing to complain about. I go to the Turkish baths once a week - they call me the Senile Hooligan as a joke. I think doing exercise every day gives you more confidence and you get to meet other active people. They say, "Oh, you old git, still doing it?" and that's encouraging. I think if other older people got that sort of encouragement they would be happier exercising too.
I joined the merchant navy when I was 15 and I worked all my life. You name it, I've done it. I worked until I was 79 at Hatton Garden [London's jewellery quarter]. At first, it's a great psychological change to give up work, and unless you take a positive attitude you begin to wonder what you're living for, but I don't really mind being retired. I go to the library and try to keep mentally healthy. I used to read one book a year, but now I read two a week and the papers from front to back. I've been with my wife since the 1960s and I'm lucky - you do need companionship.
I haven't really noticed that there are more people in their 80s now, but it does worry me if people think we're going to be a burden on the state. Lots of pensioners are struggling and have to choose between eating or putting the heating on. When I turned 80, the government gave me an extra 25p a week on my pension - that's going to make me the last of the big spenders, isn't it?
By this age, I think you're more understanding and tolerant. You have a fixed income with your pension so you live your life around that. I could go on for another 10 years, or another day, so it's not really worth worrying about anything, is it?
Andy Servin, 83, lives in east London
Younger people can be patronising to old people - they think we haven't lived, even though over the last 80 years we've probably seen a lot more than they ever have or will. I don't think people give older people the same respect that they used to. When I first came to this country people would say good morning to older people in the street.
I arrived from St Lucia in 1959, and while I know a lot of people experience racism, people were very nice to me. I had been a policeman in St Lucia, but when I came to Britain I worked for London Underground, then the Post Office. Everyone was interested in where I had come from and asked how I was dealing with the cold. Now older people are sometimes frightened to walk down the street, and that makes me sad.
I have noticed there are more older people around now. We are living longer, aren't we? These days, it's my health that causes me problems, not my age - I have a hernia but my doctor isn't sure if my heart would survive an operation. I can't complain, though. I'm still around. I'm growing old, but not gracefully, I'm sorry to say. I go to the Hibiscus community centre twice a week, because it's important to get out and see friends, be sociable - it keeps your mind young. I come here, play dominoes, have a chat, make some noise. If you've got a group of West Indies men together, you will get a lot of noise.
I'm lucky that I'm still with my wife - her health isn't good either, but at least we're sinking together. I saw a few of my Post Office friends recently and we were talking about the old days and how not many of us are still around now. As I say, I'm lucky. I've been alive a long time. I've had a good life and I've enjoyed every minute of it.
__________________________________________
Helen Granville, 86, lives near Beverley in Yorkshire
__________________________________________
I've been on my own for 25 years, since my husband died, and I've got used to it. I worked in our fish-and-chip shop for 30 years and when I retired, started volunteering at the Cancer Research shop, where I've been for 21 years. I used to work there four or five times a week, but I broke my wrist recently so I haven't been able to drive and had to cut down my hours. Apart from the fact that I enjoy it and like the people, it gets me out of the house. I don't know why old people stay at home all day and mope.
I would like to have been a teacher but my father died down the mine when I was nine and I had to leave school and make money for the family. Until recently, I taught English to immigrants, though, which I enjoyed.
I wouldn't like to be starting out in life again in today's climate - a lady came into the shop the other day in a state because someone had stolen her purse. When I look back on my life, I do wonder what I've done with it but I'm happy - I have three children and grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. Apart from my two new hips and a broken wrist, I'm not in too bad shape really. Since my husband died, I've taken on a lot of responsibilities - just things that he dealt with around the house and with the car, so I'm learning new things even at an older age. I took up writing when I was 82. I write little ditties. But I wouldn't call them poetry exactly.
_________________________________________
Dr Irving Gilbert, 92, lives in a care home in south London
_________________________________________
I can't believe I'm 92 - I put it down to luck and a good set of chromosomes. I smoked for a while when I was a student, but I haven't for years now. I moved to my nursing home, Nightingale, last year. It was sad to leave my house - I had lived in it for 50 years - and especially my garden. When you reach 92, you find that you've lost most of your friends and you're suddenly all alone. You go through an initial period of shock while you establish a new life, but I do like it here. There are always people milling about and there's no need to be lonely. They do activities and outings and I joined a computer class and have learned to use the internet and email. I'm very proud of that.
These days I am physically restricted - I have to use a wheelchair if I'm going somewhere. I'm also very forgetful, but I think I'm probably allowed to be. I never think about the future. I just live every day and enjoy it. You have more perspective as you get older. You realise that the most important thing is your health, whereas before people might have thought it was money.
I was a consultant physician, an endoscopist, and I was there when the NHS started in 1948.It was very exciting - morale was high. When you were 65, you were automatically retired. I carried on as a locum until I was 71 and, by then, the NHS was in a sorry state. If I see a doctor who is smiling, I know he's retired.
I was married for 64 years, and I don't know what the secret is - probably being tolerant of each other. It's very important to have company. I was lucky enough to meet someone recently who I could talk to. A woman? Of course!
_____________________________________________
Peggy Webb, 84, lives near Peterborough
_____________________________________________
On a good day I feel 22, which was my happiest time as I had just got married - but on a bad day I feel 99. The worst thing about being older is the aches and pains, and the frustration that you can't do as much as you would like. But I am lucky to be living with my daughter and son-in-law, as I never get lonely. I'm deaf and my dog, Suki, is always by my side and works as my ears, which means I can be as independent as I want to be.
Everybody changes along with their circumstances - some mellow like a fine wine and some become more cantankerous. I have always been treated well by almost everybody - people will always offer me a seat, open a door and treat me nicely and with respect. Would I like to start my life again now? No, thanks. I'm pleased to have lived through the years that I have done and I was lucky to have a large close-knit family. It was also nice to be part of a community with a much slower pace of life.
• Interviews by Emine Saner
© Guardian News and Media Limited 2008
