Youngster

It’s Sunday, and after a frosty walk across Barnes Common and a boiled egg I was relieved of my dog duties by a bleary eyed family looking not so fresh off their overnight flight. I have an (non-specie specific) aversion to things relying on me, and was glad to be free.

Back at home I found a brother sleeping in my bed so deeply that he did not flutter an eye lid when I flung open the curtains, didn’t move when I opened a drawer by his head to find clean socks, and did not murmur when I turned up the telly whilst I drank my tea. I left him where I found him.

I went to look for a copy of The Oldie magazine. I had never heard of The Oldie, but have been advised that its writers are true talents. I made my way to a club where I could read it for free and, settling myself by a fire in the reading room, I spent the money I had saved on a coffee and first allowed myself to riffle through a stack of Sunday supplements.

Just as I was finishing a third version of my horoscope, an old couple sat on the sofa adjacent to mine; she with a paper and he with a magazine. Being a well-established sort of institution, the mags come bound in old leather albums and his choice (I saw as he crossed his legs underneath it) was labelled OLDIE. I had been beaten. I had sat for too long looking at fashion pages and recipe handouts and now I was condemned to continue doing so until the older gentleman had finished with it.

Watching him read, I started to suspect, might in fact be more entertaining than reading the magazine itself. He chuckled as he turned the pages, tilting the volume to point out a passage to his wife (who smiled into her own pages and nodded without turning), and sipped on his salt-lipped Bloody Mary. I felt rather pleased to see The Oldie sat where it might want to be: in a corduroyed lap deepening the creases of an old smiling face. Only when the last bite of his celery stick had been swallowed did he return it to the table and make his way to lunch. I grabbed the copy.

The print is slightly larger than in other publications but the magazine, like its venerable name, is wonderfully good-humoured and I chortled too, enjoying its columns and comments. Unlike my generation’s glossy weeklies the writers of these articles and rants have both the wisdom to choose interesting content and they have the vocabulary to do so articulately. I wish I had had someone next to me to point out my favourite bits to. The skill of the writing is reassuring and refreshing (in an old sort of way) and I’m glad to have been sent to it. Respect your Oldies.