Anna asks: 'What's my skipping rope doing out on the terrace, Mum?'
'I've just been seeing if I can still do it,' I reply.
'Why?' she asks.
'Go and tidy your room, ' I say.
The fact is, I've been getting increasing signs that I'm not as agile these days as I thought I was. I quite accept that by the time I'm 80 or 90, I may have to curb any sudden desire to paint ceilings, take up rugger or toss my husband into the air. But I'm not nearly old enough yet for twinges and funny turns. I've been telling myself this quite often lately, as I totter clammily home from shopping, or seize up in an unusual position while cleaning the bath.
Only yesterday, I swooped on a piece of bindweed in the garden and had to spend the rest of the day in a deckchair, resting.
'Could be just sloth, you know!' says a friend. Or perhaps you ought to see a doctor,' says another.
But doctors tend to smile sceptically when I pluck up the courage to stagger into their surgeries, and imply I'm one of the healthiest sights they've seen the whole day.
'Here, try these,' they say, tossing me a prescription for something so nasty and so strong that when I take it, I really am ill for weeks. So, on the whole, I think I'd rather make do with fresh air and exercise, plus the occasional shot of brandy as a last resort. Anyway, at the moment, I don't think I am ill exactly. I just think that, without realising it, I've gradually been letting myself get out of condition.
'I've just been seeing if I can still do it,' I reply.
'Why?' she asks.
'Go and tidy your room, ' I say.
The fact is, I've been getting increasing signs that I'm not as agile these days as I thought I was. I quite accept that by the time I'm 80 or 90, I may have to curb any sudden desire to paint ceilings, take up rugger or toss my husband into the air. But I'm not nearly old enough yet for twinges and funny turns. I've been telling myself this quite often lately, as I totter clammily home from shopping, or seize up in an unusual position while cleaning the bath.
Only yesterday, I swooped on a piece of bindweed in the garden and had to spend the rest of the day in a deckchair, resting.
'Could be just sloth, you know!' says a friend. Or perhaps you ought to see a doctor,' says another.
But doctors tend to smile sceptically when I pluck up the courage to stagger into their surgeries, and imply I'm one of the healthiest sights they've seen the whole day.
'Here, try these,' they say, tossing me a prescription for something so nasty and so strong that when I take it, I really am ill for weeks. So, on the whole, I think I'd rather make do with fresh air and exercise, plus the occasional shot of brandy as a last resort. Anyway, at the moment, I don't think I am ill exactly. I just think that, without realising it, I've gradually been letting myself get out of condition.
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