COMPETITION

Happy days

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1435 you were asked for a poem in celebration of the pleasures or advantages of age.

`Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age,' says the ghost of Nicholas Ferrar in Little Gidding, and then socks it to us: 'the cold friction of expiring sense without enchantment', 'the laceration of laughter at what ceases to amuse' and 'the rending pain of re-enactment of all that you have done, and been'. Bra! Hoping for a cheery counterblast, I got nothing warmer from many of you than a moderate east wind. Joan Van Poznak's 'celebration' ended with 'But oh, to be forty again!' and Berni Wellgell's, equally chillingly, 'There's end- less pleasure in a soundless blur.' At the other extreme, the optimistic brigade tended to be unconvincingly jolly. 'Hooray for being a Poor Old Crock!' (Marjorie Moore) reminded me of the teetotaller's drinking song with its hollow chorus `fluz- za for brave water!' and there was a lot of second-childhood jubilation along the lines of 'No more Latin, no more French, No more sitting on a hard board bench!' Whatever the pleasures of age may be, they're clearly hard to come by and on the tame side. As Charles Mosley put it:

Now I've time for Trollope, Dickens, Gibbon, James, Pace a gentle lollop, Not Olympic Games.

Still, the winners fairly earn £10 each, and the bonus Longman Dictionary of the English Language belongs to Morris Clarke for a good portrait of a comfortable old monster.

`Would you mind if we changed over chan- nels?

There's that programme that I want to watch.'

'Darling, what about pressing my flannels, And then nipping out for some Scotch?' 'Today I've got one of my twinges - I don't think I can go out, or shop.'

'Could you put some more oil on those hinges, And ask Sharon to turn down her pop?'

'I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting.' `Just a piece off the breast, dear, please.' 'I get such a draught from that grating, I'll have that old rug for my knees.'

'I don't need to get up in the morning, So I'll just take breakfast in bed.' `Could you put up that patio awning?' `There's so many books I've not read.'

(Morris Clarke) The milkman got a large piece of my mind This morning, I was splendidly unkind. I called the parish council 'filthy reds' 'It's just his age,' they said and shook their heads.

I gave the meals-on-wheels do-gooders hell. `You're all flaccid philanthropists,' I yelled And criticised the custard. They weren't riled — `He's such a character,' they said, and smiled.

The social worker has her work cut out. 'You mini-skirted Jezebel,' I shout, 'Don't try it on with me, you little minx!' She grins. I'm just like her old Dad, she

thinks.

I've been a courteous child and gentle man And walked through life as softly as one can. Now, ageing, I've a lifetime's bile to share, And no one says a word or turns a hair.

(Nick Syrett) Age is kind: No more nine-to-five grind; No more tortured craving for that soufflé confection, Perfection.

Age heals: No more agonising if someone steals Your thundqr — or your wife; Age says, 'That's life.'

Age is calm, Enjoys the simple exercise of charm; No more humiliating treks In search of sex. (Watson Weeks) As you approach your three score years and ten Look not with envy back on younger men, For age brings with it leisure to explore A multitude of joys unknown before.

Once you have quit the ruthless rodent race You live more fully at a gentler pace, Your waist now slimmed without the huge amount You used to eat on your expense account.

Serene affection rules in place of passion, Music and art no longer on the ration: There's time to read your 'Dickens, and to write A book that may not ever see the light.

Time, too, to make a garden by the sea, To travel, paint and do embroidery — And even time to let Jaspistos know You're not too old to have another go.

(Peter Hadley) Some lust for wealth, and some for fame, But I work on a different plan.

Since boyhood it has been my aim To be a Nice Old Gentleman; To go to some South Coast retreat (I will, of course, have saved the money) And settle in my garden seat (It will, of course, be warm and sunny).

It will be honourable there To hire a man to mow and paint.

A certain deafness I'll declare, A most selective, stray complaint.

I practise keenly every day The sunny smile, the gentle gait.

I have the gear, I know the way -

I just have forty years to wait. (Noel Petty)