Touchy

 In a book I’m rereading, one of the main characters (who’s in his late 70s) is going in for his first massage—a gift from his new lady friend. This isn’t a sexy-time deal—just a straight up, whale songs and rainforest sounds in the background, towel covering vulnerable bits, lit scented candles massage.

Ron, a former union activist and all around rabble-rousing tough guy is panicking about being touched by the masseurs. How will he, how CAN he possibly relax?

If anyone wants to touch you, they should be your doctor or your wife, or, at a push, a stranger next you in the pub when England score.

Pauline holds his hand and tells him he can relax, and that there is nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about? What if he’s too heavy for the massage table? What if the masseur is a woman? What then? Or, even worse, what if the masseur is a man? What will they make of his naked body? Do you keep the towel on? Ron has seen himself in the mirror and wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Will he have to make conversation? What do masseurs talk about? Can you talk about football or is it all essential oils and wind chimes?…Are the gentle sounds of the rainforest ever going to stop?

This is from Richard Osman’s third installment of the Thursday Murder Club mystery series.

Oh my fucking hot stone god, I can SO relate! For as much time as I’ve spent in hospital and rehab, being poked and prodded by nurses, aids, PTs, docs and such, I REALLY don’t like being touched by strangers. For that matter, unless I’m expecting a person’s touch (yes, even a much loved one’s touch) I’m gonna, involuntarily, mega flinch on contact.

One of the things I loved when I read the books the first time, was that most of the main cast was in their 70s. Finally some heroes in my general age range! They have aches, pains, history and the usual crap that hits later in life. These are supremely relatable characters.

One of the crew wants to get a dog. Her friends advise her to either not get one OR, if she must, adopt an older dog. Why? Because, at the age of 77, odds are a puppy is gonna outlive you. These were precisely my thoughts before I got Cake. Our very good kitten is now around 11 years old. He may well outlive me. If so, Jen, Ten and Oni will take care of him. I may outlive Cake. If this is the case…well, yea me I guess.

The elderly sleuths are all well aware they’re in the last chapter(s) of their lives. Still, they’re engaged with life around them, they’re trying new things (like a massage or oat milk or investigating murders). They cope, grieve, crack wise and continue to live. I need to take a lesson here.

I’m certainly not as fit or able as the Murder Club gang, not by a long shot, but I’m not dead yet. My, now, rollator assisted walks are much, MUCH shorter than they used to be. I can’t scramble over the pebbles and boulders on the beach anymore. My misanthropic introvert tendencies seem to be resurfacing and gaining ground and I’ve been deaf for nearly 17 years. Still, I’m alive. I’ll never hear Richard Thompson or Jeff Beck’s guitar playing again. It’s supremely unlikely that, at this point, I’ll ever learn how to surf or do a trike tour of the Hebrides. I may never rebuild enough hand/eye coordination to paint again. BUT I’m alive and there are more avenues to explore.

There’s still much that I CAN do. I’m not dead yet.

I’ve just discovered there’s a Thursday Murder Club film being made. Also, the fifth book of the series is due out in 2025. I’m psyched!