Walking home from town the other day, I got chatting to a lovely older guy at the pedestrian lights. We stood there, strangers side by side, waiting patiently for the green man to appear, and the accompanying ‘beep beep beep’. Both of us invisible. Without introduction, he launched into a conversation about the weather, and how it looked like rain. Such a British thing, except his accent was unmistakably South African.

We both seemed to be heading in the same direction, so we did that slightly awkward thing of falling into step with one another. By the time we’d reached his bus stop 10 minutes later, we’d rattled through several topics, including putting the world to rights and a deep dive into the world of the ‘older’ person.

His was a weathered face. Nut brown and wrinkled from years of sun exposure. He was wearing pseudo-safari gear with a matching hat. He looked like a fit, outdoorsy version of a dapper gentleman. Casual, but not in the scruffy way the British are so good at pulling off. He looked as if he’d lived an interesting life.

The thing that was bothering him enough to share with a total stranger was this; he’d just been to the doctor’s. Pretty routine, he admitted, for a guy of his age. But on this occasion, his enquiry was more complicated and required a bit more time to resolve.

I listened as he told me how, despite the reception staff being perfectly pleasant to him, he’d felt like a nuisance. Why? Because they had employed that ever-so-slightly condescending tone so often used when speaking to our older generation.

The verbal equivalent of being patted on the head like a small child and put in a corner with a book to sit quietly. Because of his age (his words), he felt like he was being dumbed down, patronised. Made to feel small. And he wasn’t happy about it.

Didn’t they know he had once been in charge of huge teams of people, set up businesses, and had a long and successful career? He was once young too; you know! Just because he was in a body that looked like it had a few miles on the clock; didn’t mean he should be relegated to the scrap heap.

For context; I’m 54 – a good 20 years younger, but am already feeling the cloak of invisibility wrapping itself around me. Sure, there are many things about no longer being young I don’t miss; the whistles and catcalls from building sites or passing cars. Being looked up and down like a piece of meat. All those awful things that sadly still happen all too often to our young women.

It’s true; there are advantages to blending into the background. You can get on with your day without anyone noticing your existence. It’s like being in a parallel universe where a panel of glass divides you from those who inhabit the vibrant, noisy, fast-paced world of the younger generations.

The ones running the show now. Or so we’re told.

You can see what’s going on, but you can’t interact with it, or touch anything from this side of the void.

We’ve had our time, they’d say.

We had the chance to make a mark, to change the world, to stamp our feet loudly in protest.

And now we must shuffle off into a corner to live out the rest of our lives without a fuss; hand the baton to those with bright, young brains, and boundless energy.

But here’s the thing; our bodies might be wrinkly and we may move more slowly than we used to. But there ain’t nothing wrong with our minds. We’re as lively, creative, knowledgeable and vibrant as ever. We still have lots to offer the world and we don’t want to be brushed aside, thank you very much!

It’s just we might look a bit raggedy around the edges some days, that’s all.

And we’re NOT DEAD YET!