It was the solicitor in charge of updating my will who mentioned the term “organ recital” in reference to the dining pre-chat of those of us in our eighth decade. These days, our mutual friends bear the scars of more disc hits than Stevie Wonder at his height. Some are anxious about forgetting words and some are visiting “Fall Clinics”. Some are faffing with hearing aids which require phone tapping and some are adjusting to cataract surgery and hip replacements which were deemed “a piece of cake” but were more of a hard biscuit. Teeth contain another dinner at the end of a meal and feet have arthritis, as do hands.
I once suggested to my mother that she should give up wheat for a week or so to see if it helped her arthritic hands. She looked appalled and astonished at the same time, a feat she could pull off with ease, and said;
‘’WHEAT?!’’ as though I had suggested strychnine.
‘WHEAT? I never buy WHEAT… what would I do with wheat?’’
I explained that wheat was in many products such as biscuits, pasta, gravy and bread.
‘’BREAD?’’ she cried, this time as though I’d said WD-40, “I never buy bread, I don’t bother with it.” There was a slight pause where I more or less gave up the ghost, then she said: “Is toast bread?”
At the Oldie Awards, I was deeply impressed by the actress Sian Phillips, looking as elegant as ever with her chiselled cheekbones and cropped hair. She has been on tour recently in her one-woman show, It’s All Greek, and on Gyles Brandreth’s podcast Rosebud. Artist and sculptor Maggie Hambling, a recipient of an Oldie award, told me I owed her fifty quid for a bet we once had. Apparently, she had seen me in a hilarious sketch which I said I’d never appeared in and she claimed I had. We were both too old to remember who was right, so I guess we should just keep 25 quid each.
She told an hilarious joke in her speech about an episode of the quiz show Who Wants To Be A Millionaire with Chris Tarrant.
It seems that the contestant was about to win a million and the atmosphere was tense. Tarrant told him this was his last question. There was a blast of electronic music, then, finally:
“For ONE MILLION POUNDS. What is the colour of your wife’s pubic hair?
“Is it Blonde. Auburn. Or Black?”
Silence ensued, the clock ticked. At last, the contestant spoke.
He said…‘’Can I phone a friend?”
I really hope my editor doesn’t cut the joke because jokes are few and far between these days and that was a blast of a joke. Like all the best ones, it contains all the ingredients of a good short story. Today, anyone “inferior” as the butt of a joke – and all jokes are about someone being superior to someone else – are untouchable. You can still, however, get a laugh out of old people, blondes and animals. Not so funny old world.
Because I am embarking on a new play, which will tour around the country, I have been doing some publicity interviews, and the subject of age is never far from the sub-editor’s “Lipman will be 80 and is going on tour!” screamed the headlines. “Actress in her eighth decade heads off on tour!’’ “‘It‘s retirement or touring’ says octogenarian Lipman.”
And you want to shout – “You just don’t get it do you? I feel exactly the same as when I was 49 – in fact I feel better.”
I still feel surprised when the young people go off to do their thing and don’t fight to take me with them. I still bemoan the look of myself on screen just as I did when I was 29, and every day of my life I intend to exercise more because I think I resemble a bag of stewed fruit just out of the freezer. I haven’t gained wisdom or turned into a paragon of patience and I am no better at managing my time than I was when I mismanaged my husband and kids. I’m still a good actress but I have less confidence when I walk on a stage than I had when I was Diana Rigg’s understudy at the Old Vic and had just heard the whole audience groan at the announcement that she was ‘off.’
So why is age the only issue journalists want to talk about? Apart from Israel naturally and that is a can of wars I fear, but can’t help opening. I don’t think it wins me many friends in the business there is no business like. My head is above the parapet and, not for the first time, I feel bad about having such a long neck.
Still, yesterday in the street, a man leaned out of his car in the high street and called out; “Love your work Maureen” and sped off with the lights. It was so nice. It was done with such grace and appreciation. None of that stuff that makes me grit my bridgework. Like “Are you still acting?” or “My mother loves you in Coronation Street but we never watch it”, or “You look so much better in real life.’’
Also, I am combing through the works of Mel Brooks for a tribute at Jewish Book Week. In his 100th year he is as feisty and as philosophical as ever (and still reeling from the murder of his godson Rob Reiner and wife). “Age cannot wither him nor custom stale his infinite variety act.” He doesn’t have a bad word to say, in his autobiography, All About Me, of anybody he ever worked with, and he gives credit, whether it is due or not.
In his great improvised party act, The 2,000 Year Old Man with Carl Reiner, his bestie for so many years, Carl asks him the secret of his incredible longevity and he replies:
“Never run for a bus, there’ll always be another – never touch fried food – stay out of any small Italian car and eat a nectarine a day… half a peach, half a plum… even a rotten one is good.’’ I can’t help thinking that the secret of his success, and indeed the success of his tribe, the Jewish people, is to create pure philosophy and cloak it in laughter.
Finally, driving to the cinema to see the Norwegian film Sentimental Value – which I recommend above and beyond every other nominated film on the circuit – we heard a play on Radio 4 by John Burrows, called I Remember You. It starred a brilliant trio of actors, Bill Patterson, Nick Le Prevost and Jonathan Pryce playing men at a funeral who had all been married to the diseased woman. Very early on one of them said – and I paraphrase: “Oh! here we go, the old organ recital again.”
We smiled at one another. What goes around comes around – certainly, in these days and around these unreplaceable parts.
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