Charles Handy: What Fun it Is Getting Old

Aged nearly 90, Charles Handy has a frabjous day, every day

It was the weekend of the Jubilee. We planted three trees, and the fridge was full of champagne. My daughter said, “We don’t do enough celebrating in this family.”

“Why – what else should we be celebrating?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “what about the fact that you’re in your 90th year, that you’re still alive, and that you’re still writing and giving lectures, albeit with different technologies – I think that’s pretty remarkable and we should celebrate it.”

“Yes,” said my naughty granddaughter. “Grandpa, why can’t we have champagne for breakfast every day for a whole year? That would be lovely.”

“Lovely it might be,” I said. “But it would make you sick and give me a headache.”

No, I’m not going to celebrate myself. But I’ll tell you what I will celebrate: old age.

Most people don’t realise what a wonderful stage of life it can be. Yes, I’m in my 90th year and I’m very disabled – sorry, I should have said I have “mobility issues” – so I can’t walk very much, which means I’m a prisoner in my very comfortable home and the Norfolk countryside.

I can’t go anywhere outside without an escort, preferably in motorised transport, but otherwise in my private carriage (also known as a wheelchair), often propelled by my grandchildren.

But I live like royalty. I don’t do anything for myself: if I lift a finger, somebody runs to ask what I want. I have a delightful young woman, a British citizen from Zimbabwe, who cares for me. She dresses me and undresses me, cooks for me, makes sure I take my pills etc.

Just like royalty in fact. What is there to complain about? I’m well fed. Apart from my mobility issues, I’m well. I have no pain. I’m catching up on my reading. Like Nero, who played the lute while Rome burned, I watch a country descend into chaos while I listen to Mozart.

I’m a sort of passenger these days – a voyeur of society. I feel guilty about that but then I think that I’m too old to be of use to anybody, so I might as well sit back and enjoy life – which is exactly what I’m doing. I probably eat too much. Sue insists on having wine with every meal. I watch too many films on television. I try not to watch the news – too depressing.

What’s not to like?

Of course there is the fact that round the corner, the end must come. But for the moment I forget about that and live each day, not as if it were my last, but as if there were quite a few more to come. The time I have left is of course getting less and less, so I must enjoy every day while I can.

I look out at a lovely scene. The sun is shining most days at some stage. I can’t walk far but amazingly I can jog around my garden, every day after breakfast, just to show I still can.

I can wear whatever I like, whatever the occasion, and nobody objects. I can forget what day it is and people just think to themselves, “Old men forget, poor old boy.” But they don’t complain.

People listen to my more extraordinary ideas and think I’m some kind of wise man, which of course I’m not, but age gives you this sort of assumed authority which people seem to revere. So why not take advantage of it?

Here I am sitting in the most beautiful countryside, indulging myself in all the things I love to do. It’s a fantastic time of life. As my son said the other day, “If this is what old age is like, I can’t wait to be old.”

So let’s celebrate old age. One way I do this is by performing a daily ritual inspired by Lewis Carroll’s wonderful nonsense poem “Jabberwocky”. In it, when a man discovers his son has killed the Jabberwock, he breaks into a celebration:

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

Every morning when I wake up, I shout out to my astonished neighbours (who are probably too far away to hear anyway), “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” I chortle in my joy. For I am awake and I am alive.

So if you’re in your 90s or getting near, may I recommend that you not only copy me, but also read “Jabberwocky”. In a looking glass world, nonsense can often make more sense than sense.

I promise you, old age can be a frabjous time. Life is good, callooh callay!

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