Me with my siblings on the occasion of my 60th birthday, ten years ago

How Many Miles to Babylon?

There was a nursery rhyme when I was a kid, which went:

How many miles to Babylon?

Three score and ten.

Can I get there by candle-light?

Yes, and back again.

 

There are various versions of the rhyme, some with a different destination in the first line, but I think the most commonly known one was Babylon. I don’t know whether the lyric should be taken literally or whether some symbolism was intended. If internet sources can be said to have a consensus, it seems that it was written to be taken literally as a sincere query. However, for me it does have symbolism of life’s journey, this month in particular.

This is because later in August, I reach my biblical sell-by date of 70, three score and ten. I am rather aware, particularly in Taekwondo classes, that my back and hips aren’t what they used to be. Generally, although I bounced back after last year’s hormone treatment and radiotherapy, at this age, you never come back 100% from a hit. A couple of friends have died recently, and a sure sign that I’ve got mortality on my mind, my parents are alive again in my dreams at night.

On a more down to earth subject, my teeth are also feeling their age. The amount of money I’ve spent on dentistry recently doesn’t bear thinking about. In my oral cavity I sport a depleted patchwork of misshapen choppers. I think there’s a redundancy there. Where else would I have these decrepit gnashers than in my oral cavity? No, don’t answer that.

I’m having rather a quiet 70^th birthday. Both boys will come over and we’ll have a barbecue in the garden, weather permitting. The following week, however, we will sail to the Hook of Holland and have a long weekend in the Hague (not in the dock of the International Criminal Court, I hasten to add).

Let me tell you about a recent embarrassing event which I am hoping isn’t a sign of age-related deterioration of my cognitive function. For our wedding anniversary, 30^th June, we planned to go to the theatre. Our choice was Amadeus, with the brilliant Michael Sheen as Salieri. I went online, booked it, no bother, good seats in the stalls, got the email receipt saying, ‘Your tickets will arrive nearer the time of the performance.’ On the day before, I got rather jumpy as nothing had arrived. I registered and logged in to Delfont Mackintosh Theatres, and found that I had reserved tickets for the 30^th June, 2027, NOT 2026. Smart boy wanted. It should have occurred to me that it was too easy to get good seats for such a prestigious performance so near to the time.

All was not lost, however, we went to see Oh Mary at the Trafalgar theatre instead and laughed our heads off. And that’s next year’s wedding anniversary sorted already.

The incident reminded me of something in my days as a trade union officer. Laurie Sapper, the General Secretary of the Association of University Teachers in the 1970s and early 80s, used to say, ‘Old professors never die. They just lose their faculties.’

Quiz lore

Linda, Tom and myself were doing the Guardian quiz at the weekend, and one of the questions was, ‘Who was the only Jesuit pope?’ None of us had any idea, but Tom suggested ‘Popey Mc Popeface’. Inspired.

A while back, I tried to assemble a series of spoof quiz questions. I can only remember three of them:

1.      How hard would you have to push a child on a swing to make him/her go a full 360 degrees over the bar?

2.      If you dropped a stone over the banisters, how fast would you have to run down the stairs for it to hit you on the head?

3.      What did the soldiers in the wooden horse of Troy do when they needed the lavvy?

August poem

I think this one has appeared before, so I repeat it here just for completeness. Coincidentally, the sentiment in it is quite apposite to the remarks above about ageing.

Both last month’s and this month’s poem hark back to my past, this month’s to my childhood, July’s to my lovesick teenage years. I am reminded of what Thomas Pynchon said in his introduction to Slow Learner, a collection of his early short stories. Pynchon, America’s most imaginative and innovative (and maddest) writer of the 20th century was overly critical of his early work, but he did say something that we often feel about our younger selves. I certainly feel it about my younger self. I may not have the exact wording, but it went something like this: ‘If I met this guy coming down the street today, how would I feel about lending him money, or even having a couple of beers and talking about the old days?’

Anyway, here goes.

August

Long way

A gap in the trees, a view across the plain.

Golden on the distant river, sunlight

Of an August afternoon begins to wane.

The children hear the wings of coming night.

 

Time to go home: three miles over woodland,

Scrub and field. We must get home for tea.

At sinks and hobs and ovens, mothers stand

To feed us all, to shield the family.

 

Fifty years on, we see the same sun glow.

We turn and look to home. The fading light

Tells us it is time to return, but no.

We’ve gone too far to get back before night.