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But, for some reason, the deterioration of my body bothers me more than the disintegration of my mind. Five years ago, I thought it was a bad omen when I found myself waiting until both shoelaces were undone before reaching down to re-tie them, so uncomfortable had I begun to find the act of bending over. Now I look back on those days with heady nostalgia. Not only can I not tie my shoelaces without sitting down, but if I bend over too quickly I let out an involuntary fart.
Why didn’t anybody warn me about this? It’s not just tying shoelaces — almost any physical exertion can produce a spasm of flatulence. The other day, I was sitting in a tube carriage when a beautiful brunette got on. She was laden with designer shopping bags and I decided to do the gallant thing and offer her my seat. Trouble is, it took such a gargantuan effort to get up that my dashing, Hugh Grant grin was accompanied by a loud ‘Ppppppft’. I don’t think she was impressed.
As for exercise of any kind, forget it. I used to run three miles a day, but now I can’t even sprint for the bus without thinking I’m going to have a heart attack. Last weekend, I stayed with some friends in Wales and they suggested we go for a stroll up the hill after lunch. When I demurred, they pointed out it would only take 20 minutes so, reluctantly, I pulled on some gumboots.
Five minutes later I was red-faced and panting, unable to keep up with their eight-year-old daughter. As I stood there trying to get my wind back and farting like a donkey my friends fell about laughing.
It doesn’t help having four exuberant children of my own. I can just about beat my six-year-old son if he tries to take me on in hand-to-hand combat, but if the three-year-old and four-year-old join in as well, I’m done for. It won’t be long before I’m no match for any of them. I can remember the day I beat my father in a race — I never looked at him in quite the same way again. All my children will shortly have that same experience.
The one consolation of becoming so useless and decrepit is that the prospect of death doesn’t seem quite so terrible. I’m not there yet, but I can imagine a time when my mind and body are failing so badly that oblivion will seem like a welcome release. Instead of going to bed and not being able to sleep for fear of never waking up again, I’ll greet each new dawn with a groan of resignation. Not another day tethered to a dying animal!
Having said all that, I’ve already begun planning my 50th birthday party. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I was embarrassed about getting old, even though it’s a constant source of embarrassment. The other day Caroline asked me what present I wanted from her and I suggested she pay for my breast implants to be removed. ‘Oh no, hang on a minute,’ I said, clutching my man boobs. ‘These are real.’ She was not amused.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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