Life as a retiring academic continues much as it has been. The book I have been writing since shortly after I retired is due to be published in September, but now the US/Canada rights have been sold (hooray) there’s more work needed on what we had assumed was the completed manuscript (not so hooray, but it’s fine). Being on General Synod continues to absorb far more hours than I would have thought possible. The garden needs more attention, the housework doesn’t happen very often, but there are usually more interesting things to do; reading novels, going to the theatre… And meanwhile, Time’s wingèd chariot hurries near.
So, how do you know that you really are getting old?
I have three experiences to offer, all from the last week.
First, your spouse subscribes to The Oldie. He’s very much enjoying it, not least for the free supplement on Growing Old Disgracefully. I do hope it doesn’t give him too many new ideas, as he had plenty of these already.
Second, you acquire dentures. OK, so this isn’t the full set like my gran had; my parents never had any, my mum having had teeth which looked perfect but had all sorts of problems, and my dad having had teeth which looked appalling but very rarely caused any issues. Such is the joy of genetics that I ended up with – you guessed – teeth which look appalling and have all sorts of problems. Years of orthodontics in my early teens helped with the former, but there’s not much to be done about the latter, and at the end of last summer I had a second extraction. Because that left me with two consecutive gaps, the options were implants or a partial denture. As I need to have anything surgical done in hospital, due to the bleeding disorder, and as being admitted for the extraction was quite enough excitement for one year, I declined the implants. Today, after the usual diary full of preparatory appointments, my denture was inserted (I am not sure I am that competent in removing it, but in a few hours I shall give it a go).
That means I feel really, really old. Dentures. In a glass by the side of the bed? Yuk! I am being sensible, yes I am, but it’s still a step towards the whole Old People thing. I resist it, even as I know it’s inevitable. The thing in my mouth feels far less intrusive than I expected, but it’s still there.
And the third experience? Taking your PhD supervisor’s funeral. She asked me some years ago to do this; she knew I had taken my father’s funeral. When she asked, of course I said yes, but I never really believed it would happen. She had been ill for a couple of years, but then the announcement arrived, complete with a scan of the piece of paper on which she had written ‘Cremation, to be conducted by Helen King. If service, Common Prayer, not newfangled’. So last Saturday we were at the crematorium. As well as conducting the service, which was an unusual one in having readings in ancient Greek, Italian and modern Greek, I ended up giving the tribute, weaving together my reminiscences, some lines from her own work on death and dying, and the comments of those who sent in their memories to me. I am sure some of the latter thought I should have included more of their words, but I didn’t want this to be like an academic CV: it was on the woman we knew and have lost, and what she meant to us. This was a difficult but rewarding experience; an honour.
But, wow, it concentrates the mind.
The retiring academic 