Death, taxes and ageing
Why do we stop exercising when we’re old?
There was a period in my early teen life when Sunday afternoons were dedicated to visiting my Little Grandad in Aigburth, (Liverpool) with Dad. The bigger one, who’d lived in Moseley Hill, was long gone by then. I don’t quite know how it happened and despite my protestations, Sunday became a routine for a while.
The debate was always the same — he loves to see you and while you take him out for a walk I can tidy up. I had no counter. It was Sunday and there was nothing to do. Playing out was frowned upon, the shops were shut and any sport, watching or playing had already happened yesterday. I hated Sundays.
Grandad was well into his eighties and living alone. Just getting ready to go out took an age and confirmed that our walk would be a slow one. His shoes were black leather lace ups, a scarf was added to multiple existing layers, a hat and finally a ridiculously heavy overcoat, which seemed like unnecessary assistance for gravity, given his frailty. His stick stayed in the hall because I was now interlocked with his right arm. Together we shuffled up the gentle incline to the top of Dundonald Road and into Sudley Park, his steps little bigger than a shoes’ length. The biggest concern was balance and staying upright. We managed.
