Lost in Translation

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Getting older is a bit like living in a sitcom where you're the only one who hasn't read the script. One day, you're fine, and the next, you’re lipreading like you’re auditioning for a role in a silent film. The phone rings, and instead of answering it, you just stare at it, hoping it will go away. It’s a bit like facing off with a wild animal—if you don’t move, maybe it won’t notice you.

And then there’s the fine print. Whoever decided that size 8 font was acceptable clearly wasn’t considering those of us who’ve graduated to the ‘arms-length reading’ phase of life. I’ve found myself squinting at a bottle of pills, trying to decipher whether I should take one or two, only to give up and ask the nearest young person to read it for me. Handwritten letters, once a delight, now look like hieroglyphics that require a Rosetta Stone to decode.

Conversations have become a mental workout too. There’s the constant fear that you’ve already told the story you’re halfway through telling. You see the glazed-over look in someone’s eyes and think, “Have they heard this before? Or am I just really boring?” Clearing your throat before speaking is now a ritual, as though preparing for a speech, only to realise you’re just asking someone to pass the salt.

And the art of asking people to speak slower has become an exercise in diplomacy. I’ve perfected the “Sorry, could you just say that again?” followed by a smile that I hope says, “I’m not daft, just a bit deaf,” rather than, “I’ve completely lost the plot.”