Some researchers at a Royal Society symposium, with nothing better to do, have come up with a theory that animals become less sociable as they age. They found that creatures from house sparrows to rhesus macaques have smaller social circles as they get older and that an antisocial old age might just be an advantage – in humans as well as animals. Not in my biased opinion. It sounds very dull. Anyway I question their findings: I actually think a decline in sociability is a general societal trend, rather than having anything to do with ageing.
In my 10th decade I lead a ridiculously busy social life. In my younger days, I would sit on a film set, alone and bored, for up to 10 hours a day, waiting to say a few lines. At other times I had to refrain from speaking to anyone by day because I was saving my voice for the musical I was performing six nights a week. Nowadays, I am instead, as my father would have said, “rushing around like a blue-arsed fly”. Like many of my generation, my life is crammed full of campaigns and causes. I am obsessed with prison reform. Last week, I was talking to several hundred people in Lavenham, Suffolk, trying to persuade them that as well as enjoying their old age, they should be engaged in saving the planet. Next week, I will be at Dulwich College in London, talking about the importance of funding for palliative care at St Christopher’s Hospice, of which I am an active vice-president. I cannot deny that when I see a clear day in my diary, I heave a sigh of relief. Until about midday. Then I get irritated at having to listen to, and not argue with, the protagonists on Radio 4, so I phone a friend to rant about the frustrating BBC impartiality rules. We oldies like to talk to one another, and we want to quickly change the world before we leave it.
I do struggle to communicate in depth with my younger friends and family. If I did not insist on an occasional face-to-face encounter with my grandchildren, we would never hold a proper conversation – our sociability would be reduced to messages on my phone. These usually take a while to understand because of inaccuracies blamed on “predictive text”, or having to interpret the expression on a bad caricature of a face – the “emojis” they use to indicate their mood, rather than bothering to find the words to define rage, joy or, heaven forbid, something subtle, such as indecision or trepidation. I do worry that evolution will gradually phase out the human larynx. And if AI succeeds, the brain as well.
But while a tiny screen is not my favourite way of communicating, meeting in person is not as easy as it used to be. It seems to me that a lot of grown-up socialising today is alcohol-dependent. For some people getting “plastered”, “legless” or “paralytic” is considered a great night out. I think, as one ages, the resultant bodily suffering becomes less bearable, and the hours wasted doing things one can’t remember, and if one does, probably regrets, seem a waste of precious, fast-ebbing time. So, most of us probably do less of that in old age. And, if I’ve understood the research correctly, cutting down on indiscriminate mingling might make us (like adult female red deer) less likely to have worms – so that’s another benefit of a more choosy social life.
Of course, there was alcohol in local pubs when I was young, but there used to be a gentle sociability in them that linked all ages. I should know, I grew up in one. The regulars sat at the bar chatting to the landlord and greeting arrivals. Others of all ages were at the dartboard or sitting at tables playing with dominoes or cards. Old ladies gathered in a corner sipping port-and-lemon drinks and setting the world to rights. Everyone kept an eye on the kids on the steps outside with their crisps and fizzy lemonade. There was a lot of laughter, occasional tears, and yes, sometimes rage, which in the pub where my parents worked could lead to clumsy fisticuffs. This was usually broken up by the other customers, the black eyes tended, and the blood mopped up by the old ladies. The local copper would drop in to tell people to behave. It was a fairly successful formula for sociability, which I look back on with pleasure.
Then there is the question of parties. I must confess I do not enjoy standing up with a crowd of other people, glass in hand, grabbing at passing tasteless titbits in some uncomfortable, trendy venue. But then I never did. I dread those endless “important” birthday parties that people seem to have nowadays. They start at 40 and occur every decade, and celebrants get gradually more and more miserable in this countdown to death. Sixty has lately been a frightening landmark for some of my daughters’ generation.
I didn’t even notice my birthdays until my 90th in 2022 took me by surprise. We did have a party, at which the number of my contemporaries was low. But the event has propelled me into being more sociable, and having lots of small gatherings of people from my wide friendship spectrum. I am on a mission to get together with the old friends that remain, to thank them for a lifetime of sociability and love, and maybe have a physical or mental hug goodbye. Lest it prove to be appropriate in the near future.