Not Gaga Yet (Poetry)
20th April 2025
They don’t call us OAPs any more. Now it’s ‘Senior Citizens’ —
at least that’s what is was last week. Not that it makes the slightest
difference — old is old no matter how you dress it up
And there are no consolations I can find
despite the oldies’ magazines that rattle on
about the many joys (?) of retirement. Those glowing
articles about the sunset years of hobbies, leisure pursuits
with all that time to call your own — the children flown
no boss — no stress ... Do they live in the same world?
The garden’s overgrown since my back can’t take the weeding
the kitchen needs a lick of paint, the bathroom door is squeaking —
protesting like my joints and you cannot get a local odd-job man for
love nor money. If I could remember where the screwdriver is
I might have a go at fixing it myself
Ah, that’s another thing — memory. My filing system’s shot
It’s all in there somewhere but it takes an age to dredge up names
and match them to faces. I get the grandchildren confused and that
was bad enough. Then they went and had kids themselves. Do they
really think I can remember all those birthdays? Or consider the
expense at Christmas!
Family ought to be a blessing but they worry so and fuss. Ask
endless questions — nag — am I eating enough? Do I remember to
lock up — turn off the gas? And when did I last have a check-up? It
goes on
and on ... I fend them off ‘Yes! Yes!’ wishing they’d visit less often
That sounds ungrateful, but I’m not gaga yet. Just give me time ...
They took my neighbour Robbie — packed him up like he was off
to war. I s’pose he was. They say dementia got him though he
managed 89 — a decent score, and had seemed quite bright when
I’d spoken to him only a day or so before...
Although no one’s come out and said it yet, I know it’s on the cards
they’re thinking that way — oh, they can’t fool me. I can already
hear their arguments ‘But Gran, it’s really nice — you’d like it there
— more like an hotel that an old peoples’ home...’ Old people? No
— they’re simply not my crowd
It’s likely I’ll be labelled ‘difficult’ ‘obstreperous’ ‘cantankerous’
‘bolshy’ ‘bloody awkward’ and (last but never least) ‘perverse’!
They have a right to their opinion, of course. But all the while I
know my own mind, then it is made up. I’m staying where I am
Come Hell or high water
at least that’s what is was last week. Not that it makes the slightest
difference — old is old no matter how you dress it up
And there are no consolations I can find
despite the oldies’ magazines that rattle on
about the many joys (?) of retirement. Those glowing
articles about the sunset years of hobbies, leisure pursuits
with all that time to call your own — the children flown
no boss — no stress ... Do they live in the same world?
The garden’s overgrown since my back can’t take the weeding
the kitchen needs a lick of paint, the bathroom door is squeaking —
protesting like my joints and you cannot get a local odd-job man for
love nor money. If I could remember where the screwdriver is
I might have a go at fixing it myself
Ah, that’s another thing — memory. My filing system’s shot
It’s all in there somewhere but it takes an age to dredge up names
and match them to faces. I get the grandchildren confused and that
was bad enough. Then they went and had kids themselves. Do they
really think I can remember all those birthdays? Or consider the
expense at Christmas!
Family ought to be a blessing but they worry so and fuss. Ask
endless questions — nag — am I eating enough? Do I remember to
lock up — turn off the gas? And when did I last have a check-up? It
goes on
and on ... I fend them off ‘Yes! Yes!’ wishing they’d visit less often
That sounds ungrateful, but I’m not gaga yet. Just give me time ...
They took my neighbour Robbie — packed him up like he was off
to war. I s’pose he was. They say dementia got him though he
managed 89 — a decent score, and had seemed quite bright when
I’d spoken to him only a day or so before...
Although no one’s come out and said it yet, I know it’s on the cards
they’re thinking that way — oh, they can’t fool me. I can already
hear their arguments ‘But Gran, it’s really nice — you’d like it there
— more like an hotel that an old peoples’ home...’ Old people? No
— they’re simply not my crowd
It’s likely I’ll be labelled ‘difficult’ ‘obstreperous’ ‘cantankerous’
‘bolshy’ ‘bloody awkward’ and (last but never least) ‘perverse’!
They have a right to their opinion, of course. But all the while I
know my own mind, then it is made up. I’m staying where I am
Come Hell or high water