09 July 2008
baby boomers
[This blog has taken on a rather personal tone lately. I'm not really sure why.]
I like my parents a lot. They're both perky and interesting and funny. Unlike most people, I don't even mind the idea of them having sex. In fact, I think it would be quite sweet for them to have lots of sex as they really do just get on, so getting it on would be only appropriate.
My parents are, in many ways, classic baby boomers. My Ma was the first in her family to go to university (a 2:2 in geography from Swansea), and resisted the expectation to return home afterwards to work on her own in Cardiff and Bristol. For some reason, she ended up working for companies that deal with cream, cheese and yoghurt, despite the fact that she is incredibly allergic to cows milk. My brother and I spent the summers working in the local cream factory whilst Ma worked in the office. The thought of the smell of all that cream churning in giant vats (jarred clotted cream prepared for export), the horrible hot stench of it...well, I can't think about it for too long. I was rather a good factory worker, though, far better than my brother, who used to routinely drop the thin glass jars we had to fill, cap, pack and label. The problem with production lines, even if they move you around every two hours, is the way the repetition of the external process induces second, interior repetition of thought. Say if a bad thought comes to mind - a jealous memory, a social guilt, a minor anxiety - you end up having the thought again and again, without change. The machine really does dream through you, but the dream is usually a nightmare.
Anyway, so Ma and Pa. They work very hard (my father is an NHS dentist who sees 40 patients a day. The private dentist in the town sees, on average, seven). They are not theoretical people, nor are they particularly political people. They don't really need to be because they are basically socially-minded and fair without having to read books about it - that's my job, hmm. One thing they are that I am not, though, is extremely pragmatic. They just love organising things, fixing things, doing projects and tasks and generally running around being active - my Pa's favourite mode of relaxation is to go cross-country running in the dark. He returns covered in scratches and cuts. It's a bit strange.
So, pragmatism. I'm eating dinner with them the other night. They get a call from the hospital - my Gran's there again. She got confused and pressed a fire alarm. Someone comes and she can't speak. It's probably another little mini-stroke. My parents are used to this by now: it's the kind of thing that happens a lot to them and their friends, these doddery, unhappy, isolated parents drifting on forever and ever. The conversation turns to age. I say something like 'Your generation is richer than any before or after it. You are much more successful than your parents' generation, and it's unlikely that our generation will ever be as well-off as you were.' My parents agree. 'Yes, we were very lucky'. They were, weren't they, these post-war pioneers: grants for study, jobs to pick from, houses they could afford to buy and probably most all, a sense that they were doing this all themselves, this strange combination of historical good fortune and existential determination.
They tell me they don't want to end up like their parents, nor do they want to ask my brother and I for any help when they get old. 'So what,' I say 'you've made a suicide pact?!' 'Don't call it suicide, that has the wrong connotations,' my Ma replies. 'Eh?' I say. I'm confused - they explain. 'We've discussed it with our friends. We don't want to give up on the good things, so we're all going to make living wills.' This sounds a bit like the thing people say, usually in black jest: 'oh, just switch off the machine!' But I'm impressed that they've gone so far. And so pragmatic. And so sure that death is whatever they think it is - a simple termination that bookends a hard-working life. I'm a bit rattled too though, as this sounds like it could be a kind of mini-Jonestown in Wiltshire, a revolutionary suicide of the rural middle classes. I wonder what Ballard would make of it.
'Are you sure?' I ask them. They really are. Not for them the nursing home, the slow and sorry curses and regrets of a prolonged dotage. They laugh at the fact that they now have free bus passes, though there aren't very many buses where they live to use them on. I don't want to ask them at what point the decision would be made, what diagnosis or prognosis would occasion such finality. It's not clear. All they know is that when quality slips into quantity, they want no more part of it. We drink more wine and watch Father Ted.
I like my parents a lot. They're both perky and interesting and funny. Unlike most people, I don't even mind the idea of them having sex. In fact, I think it would be quite sweet for them to have lots of sex as they really do just get on, so getting it on would be only appropriate.
My parents are, in many ways, classic baby boomers. My Ma was the first in her family to go to university (a 2:2 in geography from Swansea), and resisted the expectation to return home afterwards to work on her own in Cardiff and Bristol. For some reason, she ended up working for companies that deal with cream, cheese and yoghurt, despite the fact that she is incredibly allergic to cows milk. My brother and I spent the summers working in the local cream factory whilst Ma worked in the office. The thought of the smell of all that cream churning in giant vats (jarred clotted cream prepared for export), the horrible hot stench of it...well, I can't think about it for too long. I was rather a good factory worker, though, far better than my brother, who used to routinely drop the thin glass jars we had to fill, cap, pack and label. The problem with production lines, even if they move you around every two hours, is the way the repetition of the external process induces second, interior repetition of thought. Say if a bad thought comes to mind - a jealous memory, a social guilt, a minor anxiety - you end up having the thought again and again, without change. The machine really does dream through you, but the dream is usually a nightmare.
Anyway, so Ma and Pa. They work very hard (my father is an NHS dentist who sees 40 patients a day. The private dentist in the town sees, on average, seven). They are not theoretical people, nor are they particularly political people. They don't really need to be because they are basically socially-minded and fair without having to read books about it - that's my job, hmm. One thing they are that I am not, though, is extremely pragmatic. They just love organising things, fixing things, doing projects and tasks and generally running around being active - my Pa's favourite mode of relaxation is to go cross-country running in the dark. He returns covered in scratches and cuts. It's a bit strange.
So, pragmatism. I'm eating dinner with them the other night. They get a call from the hospital - my Gran's there again. She got confused and pressed a fire alarm. Someone comes and she can't speak. It's probably another little mini-stroke. My parents are used to this by now: it's the kind of thing that happens a lot to them and their friends, these doddery, unhappy, isolated parents drifting on forever and ever. The conversation turns to age. I say something like 'Your generation is richer than any before or after it. You are much more successful than your parents' generation, and it's unlikely that our generation will ever be as well-off as you were.' My parents agree. 'Yes, we were very lucky'. They were, weren't they, these post-war pioneers: grants for study, jobs to pick from, houses they could afford to buy and probably most all, a sense that they were doing this all themselves, this strange combination of historical good fortune and existential determination.
They tell me they don't want to end up like their parents, nor do they want to ask my brother and I for any help when they get old. 'So what,' I say 'you've made a suicide pact?!' 'Don't call it suicide, that has the wrong connotations,' my Ma replies. 'Eh?' I say. I'm confused - they explain. 'We've discussed it with our friends. We don't want to give up on the good things, so we're all going to make living wills.' This sounds a bit like the thing people say, usually in black jest: 'oh, just switch off the machine!' But I'm impressed that they've gone so far. And so pragmatic. And so sure that death is whatever they think it is - a simple termination that bookends a hard-working life. I'm a bit rattled too though, as this sounds like it could be a kind of mini-Jonestown in Wiltshire, a revolutionary suicide of the rural middle classes. I wonder what Ballard would make of it.
'Are you sure?' I ask them. They really are. Not for them the nursing home, the slow and sorry curses and regrets of a prolonged dotage. They laugh at the fact that they now have free bus passes, though there aren't very many buses where they live to use them on. I don't want to ask them at what point the decision would be made, what diagnosis or prognosis would occasion such finality. It's not clear. All they know is that when quality slips into quantity, they want no more part of it. We drink more wine and watch Father Ted.
