Some researchers at A Royal Society symposium, with nothing better to do, came up with a theory that animals become less sociable as they get older. They found that creatures from house sparrows to rhesus macaques have smaller social circles as they age and that an antisocial age might just be an advantage — in humans as well as animals. Not in my biased opinion. It sounds very dull. However, I question their findings: I actually think a decline in sociability is a general societal trend, rather than having anything to do with aging.
In my 10th decade, I lead a ridiculously busy social life. In my younger days, I would sit alone and bored on a film set for up to 10 hours a day, waiting to say a few lines. Other times I had to refrain from talking to anyone during the day because I was saving my voice for the musical I was performing six nights a week. These days I rather, as my father would have said, “run around like a blue-ass fly”. Like many of my generation, my life is full of campaigns and causes. I am obsessed with prison reform. Last week I spoke to several hundred people in Lavenham, Suffolk, trying to persuade them that as well as enjoying their old age, they should be busy saving the planet. Next week I will be at Dulwich College in London talking about the importance of palliative care funding at St Christopher’s Hospice, of which I am an active vice-president. I can’t deny that when I see a bright day in my diary, I breathe a sigh of relief. Until about noon. Then I get annoyed at having to listen to the headliners on Radio 4 and not argue with them, so I phone a friend to talk about the frustrating BBC impartiality rules. We old people like to talk to each other, and we want to change the world quickly before we leave it.
I struggle to communicate in depth with my younger friends and family. If I didn’t insist on an occasional face-to-face meeting with my grandchildren, we’d never have a proper conversation – our socializing would be reduced to messages on my phone. It usually takes a while to understand because of inaccuracies blamed on “predictive text” or interpreting the expression on a bad caricature of a face – the “emojis” they use to show their mood indicating, rather than finding the words that define anger, joy or, heaven forbid, something subtle, such as indecision or trepidation. I do worry that evolution will gradually phase out the human larynx. And if AI succeeds, so does the brain.
But while a small screen isn’t my favorite way of communicating, it’s not as easy to meet in person as it used to be. It seems to me that many adults these days are socially dependent on alcohol. For some people, being “plastered”, “legless” or “crippled” is considered a great night out. I think, as one gets older, the resulting physical suffering becomes less bearable, and the hours wasted doing things one can’t remember, and if one does, probably regret, seem it’s a waste of precious, quick time. So, most of us probably do less of it in old age. And if I understood the research correctly, cutting off indiscriminate mixing could make us (like adult female impalas) less likely to have worms – so this is another benefit of a more discerning social life.
Of course there was alcohol in local bars when I was young, but there used to be a gentle conviviality in them that connected all ages. I should know, I grew up in one. The regulars sat at the bar chatting with the landlord and greeting arrivals. Others of all ages were at the dart board or sat at tables playing dominoes or cards. Old ladies huddled in a corner sipping port and lemon drinks and putting the world to rights. Everyone was watching the children on the steps outside with their crisp and fizzy lemonade. There was much laughter, occasional tears, and yes, sometimes anger, which in the bar where my parents worked, could lead to clumsy fisticuffs. It was usually broken up by the other customers, the black eyes taken care of and the blood mopped up by the old ladies. The local shopper would pop in to tell people to behave. It was a pretty successful formula for conviviality, which I look back on with pleasure.
Then there is the matter of parties. I have to confess I don’t enjoy standing up with a crowd of other people, glass in hand, reaching for passing tasteless treats in some awkward, trendy venue. But then I never did. I dread those endless “important” birthday parties people seem to throw these days. They start at 40 and take place every decade, and revelers gradually become more and more miserable in this countdown to death. Sixty has been a scary beacon for some of my daughters’ generation lately.
I didn’t even notice my birthdays until my 90th in 2022 surprised me. We did have a party, where the number of my contemporaries was few. But the occasion pushed me to be more sociable and have lots of small gatherings of people from my wide friendship spectrum. I’m on a mission to be with the old friends that remain, to thank them for a lifetime of companionship and love, and maybe have a physical or mental hug goodbye. That it does not appear to be appropriate in the near future.
