I won't live to 116, like the UK's oldest woman, and not only because I'm Scottish
There are a few reasons why I won’t be a centenarian
The world’s oldest person, Ethel Caterham in Surrey, turned 116 last week.
That makes her the last living human to have been born during the reign of Edward VII.
Since then, the poor woman has been pestered for her longevity wisdom. It must be exhausting, when you’re a centenarian, to be constantly asked what your secrets are. If it were me, I’d wind the young ‘uns up, and say it was down to eating a weekly portion of tripe. I’d tell them I had ice cold showers every morning at 5am, and self-flagellated with wet tea towels.
Anyway, she’s put it down to her attitude, which seems to be an easy-going one.
“I’ve taken everything in my stride, the highs and the lows,” she said.
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this, from someone who’s reached advanced old age. It has confirmed to me that I’ll never make it that far. Worriers like me do not get to the platinum years.
Unlike Caterham, I can’t take things in my stride. I agonize, and deliberate, gnash my teeth, and get tangled up in life’s small print. It feels as if I just lurch from one minor crisis to another. Every mole hill becomes a Munro.
I wish I could be more Zen, but sometimes I think that inner calm is innate, and not a learned skill. Perhaps it’s a generational thing.
My mum is turning 90 next year, and she’s of Caterham’s ilk. She’s always been a chill person. She doesn’t overthink, or cry over spilt milk.
It’s not fun to get old, and I’m always amazed how accepting she is of the indignities, frustrations and inconveniences that come with a body that’s often on the blink.
I’d put money on her making it to 100. I really hope she does join the 0.03 per cent of the UK population who get to that age and beyond.
Mind you, Scottish people don’t tend to live as long as the English. The average life expectancy for women in this country is 80.8 years, compared to 83 years in England - aka the official home of the world’s oldest women.
We burn too brightly here, is my reasoning. We’re here for a good time, not a long time. That’s why shortbread was invented.
Anyway, the world’s oldest person EVER was a Frenchwoman, Jeanne Calment, who lived until she was 122-years-old and 164 days - because days become significant, like you’re a baby again, when you reach that vintage - and died back in 1997.
Before Caterham became the eldest, the frontrunner was a Brazilian, Maria Branyas Morera, who passed on at the age of 117 in 2024.
Her gut biome and DNA was studied by the University of Barcelona before her death, and scientists found that she had a ‘privileged genome’ - nothing to do with the ones in your garden, who hold a fishing rod - and an incredibly healthy gut biome that was similar to a child’s.
Okay, so that’s another reason I ain’t going to make it that far.
After having a stomach ulcer in my late twenties, I’ve been on meds for gastric reflux for about 20 years.
I can’t come off them. If I try, it’s like a tsunami of battery acid is flooding my gullet. My gut biome - all those healthy bacteria leaping about in your tum - have long packed up and shipped out. I imagine the lining of my stomach as a razed and barren Amazonian forest, no matter how much kimchi and sauerkraut I munch. There is nobody home.
The other genome thing. Well, that’s just genes, not much I can do about that.
Apparently, Caterham’s sister reached 107, so she had long life in the family. Mine is a real mixed bag, when it comes to longevity.
My dad lived until he was 86, which is pretty fair, since the Scottish average life expectancy for men is 76.8 years.
He didn’t think he’d get into his eighties or even seventies at all. He was sure that he’d die at the same age as his father, who had a fatal heart attack in his mid sixties - way too soon. However, my dad’s mother, my sweet Glasgow granny, carried on until she was 96. She was an incredible woman, who lived on her own in a second floor flat and went bowling, up until her final years.
On my mum’s side, her dad lived into his eighties, but her mother died in her early sixties. My only auntie passed on very young, in her fifties.
So, as far as DNA goes, who knows what my final score will be?
I’m not sure if I’d really want to be a centenarian anyway. I’m a bit worried about what life in the later parts of this troubled century might look like. Despite surviving wartime, I’m sure that Caterham and Calment saw general improvements in their lifetimes.
I’d like to imagine we’ll also see continued advances in health and social care and a move towards general humanity to others, but that trajectory seems to be nose-diving.
That’s something that puts me off living too long.
There’s also the fact that all those extra years might be wasted on someone like me, whose main hobbies are watching telly and eating.
Imagine if I had another 66 years left of that.
Well, on second thoughts, maybe it doesn’t look so bad after all.
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