Reaching ripeness

I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, I’d just had a bad week. That’s how I justified it to myself as I walked home.

Standing in the express queue at M&S on my way home from work, I’d been gently passing an avocado between my hands. I was in my happy place, daydreaming of delicately balancing it on a tower of feta cheese, poached egg, grilled tomatoes and sourdough.

Then I saw her standing in front of me. A small woman, hunched forward, wisps of grey hair escaping from the hat perched in the middle of her head.

She bent down and carefully placed her basket on the floor in front of her. Her hand clutched an M&S carrier bag that she’d rolled carefully into a neat ball. She waited patiently. Then, I watched as she picked up her basket and walked to the checkout, and I already had tears in my eyes.

The cashier scanned her items at lightening speed, nervously glancing up in-between each one at the growing queue behind me. I willed him to slow down, to look at her.

I watched her hesitate, torn between quickly throwing everything in her bag, and placing them in carefully, ordered.

She took a moment, then lifted her groceries and slowly walked away, slipping a handful of coins in her coat pocket.

I walked up to the till, blinking furiously. I realised I’d been clutching my avocado far too tightly.

This is not the first time watching an elderly person had brought me to tears, nor can I possibly be the only person to fall victim to this strange, but rarely mentioned, phenomenon.

We grow up conditioned to suppress suffering when we’re in public. I’ve seen enough people’s feet succumb to the full weight of a stiletto heel attached to an oblivious, heavy-footed human on the underground, only for the reaction to be a slight raise of the foot, reddening of the face and upwards glance, presumably to think of England like a true, suppressed Brit until the pain subsides, to know that this is a part of the human condition.

We’re not equipped to see naked vulnerability in public. We generally suppress all but the most urgent, intense urges to cry. But with elderly people in particular, we can sometimes catch a glimpse of pain, of struggle and vulnerability, that just can’t be hidden.

Loneliness and the older generation are very well acquainted, at least that’s what we’re told, which must contribute to this emotional paroxysm. But if the question is whether they really are, the response — that we can’t know for certain because this is a slice of society us younger generations are largely cut away from — answers it succinctly enough.

Perhaps there’s also some subconscious selfishness playing a part, too. Ageing is regressive, and we know it’s coming our way. Perhaps I was actually weeping for my own immortality as I eyed the two-for-£2 packets of mixed nuts.

I left M&S and walked briskly home. Holding the door open for another elderly woman as I left the shop brought some weird slither of closure. I relived the story to my flatmate before going into my bedroom and closing the door. I looked up, thought of England, and prayed with all my strength that my avocado wasn’t bruised.