Columns from The Weekend West

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Opinion Ros Thomas Opinion Ros Thomas

Older and Wiser

I spot a friend’s elderly father sitting outside the cafe with his coffee. A brisk north-easterly has turned Kirwin Street into a wind tunnel. A gust flaps his newspaper and whips a flurry of dry leaves under his table but he’s unperturbed.  

“Edward!” I say. “It’s freezing out here. Come inside and have your coffee with me.”

He hoists himself up to kiss my cheek. We move inside to a table by the wall. Edward, dapper in a navy sportscoat and crisp shirt, sweeps one hand across his glabrous head, flattening a few token wisps to his pate.

“How are you?” I say. It seems an obvious question to ask an 87-year-old.

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Opinion Ros Thomas Opinion Ros Thomas

For Old Time’s Sake

He’s wearing a pale grey tracksuit with darker cable-knit panels decorating his shoulders like epaulettes. An emergency buzzer is looped around his neck. Dangling off the silver chain is a plastic likeness of Walt Disney’s Goofy, painted orange. His name is Jim. He’s 85.

We’re settled into a small lounge curtained off from the dining hall of an aged care home. A bookshelf is lined with a well-thumbed collection of Robert Ludlums and Frederick Forsyths. Someone has lit the fire in the brick fireplace.

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Opinion Ros Thomas Opinion Ros Thomas

One for the Ages

The gentleman up the road has been scolding me for referring to him in a previous column as ‘elderly.’ He’s 81.

This neighbour is a dapper fellow with a quick wit and rounded vowels. He walks slowly and deliberately. I know his measured steps are not from lack of spunk – he’s wary of the calamity that a fall would wreak on his bones.

I understand his caution. In the past few years I have stopped galloping down stairs three at a time. I no longer leap off the high walkway at the beach to shortcut my route to soft sand. I don’t need to test my physical prowess as I once did. I know I am not invincible.

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