Having been lucky enough to reach the age of 91 in fairly good order, I have absolutely no right to get irritated when people are being kind to me. But I do. Just a little bit.
More than anything, I become irritated if told that I am extraordinary, merely for being able to function and even to work at my age. I know how fortunate I am to be able to do so much. I know that I am extraordinarily lucky. But when anything more than that is suggested, I am acutely embarrassed.
I hate anyone giving up their seat for me on public transport or helping me out of a taxi. And as for being helped across the road – well, that is really beyond the pale.
Not only is this extremely ungrateful, but it is also pretty stupid. All too often, what I think I can do and what I can actually do are somewhat different. I recently pulled my Achilles tendon and, at the moment, am experiencing considerable difficulty walking. Yet when a taxi driver got out of his cab to assist me, I took off at speed to escape him, then tripped over the curb and did my Achilles even more damage.
My eyesight has never been quite right since I suffered a retinal vein occlusion many years ago, leaving me totally unable to judge the distance and speed of oncoming traffic.
But still I protest. “I’m fine,” I say, stepping in front of a truck. “Absolutely fine.”
I am irritated if people offer to carry something for me, particularly if it’s a bag weighing no more than the equivalent of three boiled eggs. After all I am still inclined on occasions to throw the equivalent of a chorus girls’ holdall over a creaking shoulder, whilst continuing to reject all offers of assistance.
I do think carrying on working – again if you are fortunate enough to be able to do so – is a real incentive to keeping going in every way possible. Along the lines of “if you use it, you don’t lose it”. Or hopefully not, anyway.
I have, however, stopped doing pantomime out of courtesy to the audience. I didn’t want to frighten the children by having to be hauled off on a stretcher.
From about the age of 80, people are amazed that you can use a knife and fork, let alone dress yourself – which I can do quite efficiently as long as I have a supporting wall handy.
Indeed, I seem to be able to manage all sorts of far trickier challenges – particularly when I am being employed. Something about myself which irritates me nowadays is the trouble I have applying false eyelashes – which I used to be able to do in my sleep. Recently I misjudged the whole operation and applied a lash vertically, thus completely sealing my eye. Oh for Andy Burnham’s lashes! Mine were like his once, but seem to have disappeared with the passing years.
Perhaps perversely, I also get irritated if other people think I can’t do something just because I’m old.
I hate the lurking assumption that I can’t work my mobile phone properly, and almost certainly wouldn’t be able to text, WhatsApp, scroll the internet, or use social media. Actually, I never stop doing all those things. And I’m really hooked on TikTok…
All my life I have been incapable of taking a compliment. Indeed, my wife Hilary often finds it necessary to prompt me to say thank you nicely when complimented, rather than attack the faculties of those offering the compliment.
This probably all stems from my more than extraordinary mother who named me after Shirley Temple, put me on the stage aged three, and had a habit of introducing me to people by saying: “Isn’t she more beautiful than Elizabeth Taylor?” With which I wanted to climb into her handbag and close it firmly over my head.
I misguidedly took my mother backstage when I was appearing in a national tour of The Merry Widow, having taken over from the already much revered Dame Gillian Lynne, and overheard her saying to other cast members: “I think Amanda is much better, don’t you?” I nearly died on the spot. And had I done so, the coroner would have said it was from mortification. Henceforth I have never really trusted flattery.
I saw Evelyn Laye once in a charity show when she was well into her eighties and everyone was saying: “Isn’t she marvellous, isn’t she wonderful?” Now, Evelyn was a truly great actress and singer, but all she had done was walk across the stage.
People often ask what the secret of a long and reasonably healthy life is. I certainly don’t think I have done much to deserve it: I smoked for many years, I still drink too much on occasions, I exercise only spasmodically.
The truth is there isn’t a secret. You cannot choose long life. You are blessed with it. And it doesn’t make you extraordinary.
This week I have been…
Working… I am fronting a new advertising campaign for Irn-Bru, the energy drink, which has involved quite a lot of rushing about on a customised scooter without brakes. I had no problems at all until, whilst showing off, I’m afraid, I attempted a nifty U-turn and drove into a wall.
However, I took my first drink of Irn-Bru as a chorus girl in Scotland in the early 1950s, so I was delighted to take this job. After all, maybe it’s Irn-Bru that has kept me going all these years…
Also continuing to promote my book, I’m Still Here. I made an appearance at the Club for Acts and Actors, just down the road from our Covent Garden flat, for Amanda Barrie in Conversation With Hilary Bonner, my wife and co-writer. I’m preparing appearances with Hilary at two upcoming book festivals. Been told we’re quite the double act, which is great – just as long as I get top billing, of course.
Theatre-going… I finally caught up with Hamilton. Hilary gave me tickets as a birthday present, and the seats were front stalls, just three rows back, which I like a lot as it almost feels like I am in the show.
This is a production which exceeded my expectations. It dares to attempt to tell the immense story of America’s independence as a musical, largely in rap. It is also very funny. I was a professional dancer for many years, but the dancing and choreography in this show took my breath away. Wow!
News-watching… I’ve been addicted to news watching since my childhood. During the war, we gathered around the radio every day, never missing a bulletin, and I still have the same compulsive need to know what is going on, getting my news from many sources, but mostly TV and online.
I remember clearly being frightened as a wartime child, and now I am frightened again, an adult in a world that seems to be ripping itself apart. There are around 130 armed conflicts raging across our planet, twice as many as 15 years ago.
Amanda Barrie’s latest autobiography, I’m Still Here: My 90 Years, is now out in paperback. Mirror Books, £10,99
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