I’ve just read a novel by an Australian, Joanna Nell. The Last Voyage of Mrs Henry Parker is about an elderly lady who goes in search of her husband when he disappears. Not many writers are brave enough to make the heroine a woman in her 90s, but Ms Nell is an expert in geriatrics and women’s health, and her knowledge, understanding and compassion underpin this book.
It is a wonderful portrayal of age and dementia, but it is also very funny – and I can’t resist a witty book. Mrs Henry Parker will live on in my memory.
I think the test of a good book is how long it stays with you; Cold Comfort Farm, Pride and Prejudice, Olive Kitteridge, are a few I never forget.
But I am getting older so should I be reading books about dementia? I don’t feel old and I try to keep up to date: I engage with social media; I’m interested in my appearance and my clothes; I try to keep healthy and fit; beige is a dirty word to me – even if it’s called taupe – and you would never see me in Nora Batty stockings. But despite all my best efforts things things give me away: I like to be in bed by ten and I take a hot water bottle with me; visiting gardens is one of my favourite pastimes; I know no celebrities on TV programmes and my preferred viewing is Escape to the Country and Gardeners’ World.
I resist age, but one thing defeats me: I have this desire that I try hard to resist; I really, really want to call any young woman ‘dear’. It’s a give-away. No one under 50 calls anyone dear and not so very long ago I could not imagine myself doing it. But young women often seem so fragile that I want to mother them and this semi-affectionate term slips out.
I’ve owned up to an instance of ageing – I hope there are no more.
And here is a footnote – it’s not only learned tomes that have them!
* A sequel to Olive Kitteridgeby Elizabeth Strout (a very good American writer) is now out. It’s called Olive Again, and will be worth reading.
