Fordyce Maxwell: It helps if death notices relate to nonagenarians or, even better, centenarians

SOMERSET Maugham once suggested something along the lines of “There’s a philosophy in every shave,” which might well be true.

But instead of philosophising I find myself thinking while shaving that, a) this is Groundhog Day because I’m sure I did this only a couple of hours ago and, b) plans for the day ahead.

I take both as good signs, the first because it means the previous day shot past in a blur of activity – slight journalistic licence – and the second because it means I see the coming day as yet another promising interest and satisfaction.

It then helps if, over porridge and coffee, newspaper obituaries and death notices relate only to nonagenarians or, even better, centenarians. Even when they don’t and some deceased are – as they joke in agricultural circles – “from my pen”, I don’t get downhearted.

I just think those unfortunates are more reason to keep packing as much as possible into every day. Probably a generation ago, and certainly two, death notices for those in their 50s and 60s were much more common, just as silver weddings were once noteworthy and golden weddings a rarity.

My generation is probably the healthiest and luckiest yet and we should make the most of that, although where would we be without the Daily Fear pointing out the horrors of getting old, dementia, being neglected, ignored, beaten up, in debt, ill and at the mercy of the NHS or care home?

Where most of my generation are is the answer – reasonably fit, walking, gardening, taking part in sports, going on holidays our parents only dreamed about and our grandparents never even contemplated, taking the switch from helping look after elderly parents to helping look after grandchildren in our stride.

No one ever said life would be easy, but for a remarkable number of us, the retired and semi-retired group that used to be dismissed as pensioners, life is proving more fulfilling and cheerful than we thought possible when we were in our fretful 20s and 30s trying to find a niche and earn a living.

Or in our frazzled forties and fifties, fighting to stay at or near the top of our job, working ridiculous hours, travelling ludicrous distances, suffering from insomnia, anxiety attacks and stomach pains for reasons that now seem laughable.

I saw a recent definition of middle-age as when you no longer want to throw a snowball. So I’m not even middle-aged. Fine by me, as I’m determined that old age will always be ten years older than I am. We owe that to ourselves – and, remember, it’s harder to hit a moving target.