So, she’s knocking on a bit now. Rapidly heading to retirement age. That point at which people tend to suddenly be marked as unproductive. A bit useless. Ready to be put out to pasture and replaced by some new young model with new ideas and full of thrusting ambition to change the world.
Brought into the world by that most loving and passionate of fathers and cherished by all who know her, she’s lived the fullest and busiest of lives with lots of ups and downs. She’s seen a lot of changes. Some for the better, some for the worse. Truth be told, she’s looking a bit the worse for wear in places. Though she’s adept at covering it up and getting on with it.
And now, like Frank Sinatra once did, she’s starting to feel like she’s in the autumn of her years. She sees the flirting with the younger models. She sees she’s being pushed aside. She sees the change in attitude. The modern greed for money replacing her generation’s desire to nurture and protect. She sees it all and despairs.
She wants to scream out
“I’m not old! I’m not past it!I’m still worthy of my place in society! Like a fine vintage wine, I only get better with age and I’m only 63 for God’s sake…”
Besides, she knows the Government’s raising the retirement age. There’s life in the old girl yet. Happy birthday, NHS.