You know how it goes, the local news, once filled with the marriages of your contemporaries (followed by births of their children, divorces, re-marriages, big birthdays, retirements etc.) is now filled only with death.  I have resisted social media all my life (at least the portion for which it has existed) because, when you get to my age, it seems to thrive almost solely on mortality and misfortune.  Facebook notifications usually come in the form of a death knell.

The ‘official’ media is seldom better, and good news stories usually revolve around a person in their late sixties who can still walk to the shop and buy a tin of beans all by themselves.  How amazing is that?  The media is run by the cast of Logan’s Run*.  This is a world in which old-age is considered infectious, and starts at 40.  Anyone still capable of tying their own laces beyond the age of sixty is a freak.

The real world, though, is not like that, is it?  We oldies are in the ascendency.  It’s a good job we’re not vindictive.  Now there’s an idea for a film: a dystopian society in which the elderly have taken over and forced everyone under the age of forty to ‘sit for a while, drink tea and play bingo’.  It could be a winner.  The only problem would be in persuading young actors to play old people…

As one gets older, the mind switches away from thoughts of how close death has become, to how much life is left.  It’s a subtle shift, but it allows joy to be found where it never used to be: in watching other people have a good time; in putting on lots of layers and walking in the cold; in keeping warm and eating Custard Creams.  Silver linings become a preoccupation.  Although I cannot deny my year of birth, there are only two times when I actually feel old: 1) the first fifteen minutes after waking up in the morning and 2) the rest of the day.  It is only having the brain of a nine-year-old that allows me to cope with it.

And so, perfectly logically, you might now ask me why I was looking at the local news in the first place?  Well, I say local news; it is actually what we fancifully call ‘The Parish Magazine’, a monthly collection of adverts, church news, chapel news, W.I. schedules, walking club routes and reader’s letters about dog shit, but it also includes a ‘What’s On’ section, which was invaluable because I knew that we were going to the Village Pantomime (‘Oh yes I did’) but I had no idea what time it started.  Turn up too early and you are likely to freeze to death on the plastic, fold-away chairs whilst the hyperactive kid in the row behind crams marshmallows into your ears; turn up late and Dick Whittington is already slapping his thigh and the principle boy is being propositioned by King Rat.

Perhaps I could now take the opportunity to fill you in on my all-time favourite panto story.  I used to spend some time with an actor called George Moon.  He was by that time elderly, but regularly turned up for pantomime at the local theatre and boarded with my in-laws.  He related the story of a very grumpy and child-hating Jafar who, appearing for his short ‘solo spot’ in the second half after one sip too many from his interval hip flask, found that his thunderflashes were not working.  He tried again and again, to choruses of derision from the stalls before – desperate to fill the silence – he was struck with inspiration and delivered the line “Goodness gracious, what a caper: the cat’s pissed on my magic paper” to the gathered children, which, I am slightly ashamed to admit, made me laugh through my nose.

Anyway, I read the mag and discovered that the vicar and minister are in complete accord about the Christmas Story – as well as the brilliance of the long, long ago Vicar of Dibley Christmas Special (they both hope that they won’t, themselves, have to triple-up on pigs-in-blankets, brussel sprouts and sage & onion this year) – the W.I. have been crocheting Santa Claus toilet roll covers for charity (available at all good jumble sales) the walking club have been walking, but won’t be doing so on Christmas Day (as some of its members have a life), and that dog owners really should clean up after their pooches if they are not to expect a most unwelcome little gift from the neighbours on Christmas morn.  I also discovered that the panto started at seven – and that no-one died.

*A film about a dystopian society where the population is maintained by killing everyone over the age of thirty.  It received a score of zero out of four stars in the Chicago Tribune on its release – despite the presence of Jenny Agutter – which was probably more than it deserved.

The Village Panto was, of course, a huge success full of faltering scenery, forgotten lines, a mis-placed treasure chest and gales of laughter when it all went wrong – which it did, quite a lot…