Fading flowers, smiling androids

Related to the topic of old age is the distressing loss of attractiveness. This matters to a woman. It's important, even if no relationship is wanted, or could be coped with, to feel that one still has allure, that one will still be noticed and be worthy of more than one glance. It's not entirely a matter of vanity. Women grow up to be prettier than men, and there's an obvious biological reason for that. Take away the attractiveness, ruin a woman's looks, and part of her basic functionality as a human being is threatened.

It's generally possible to go through the greater part of one's life with, at the very least, a standard gonad-stirring female body. Sometimes a lovely face too. And it can all be improved upon, even if this requires ever more invasive and expensive beauty treatments. But there comes a time when old age, abetted by gravity, will win the battle to stay young-seeming. It's cruel. Some beautiful women with marvellous facial bone structure can age stunningly. But the plain and flabby-faced have to endure all the sad decay of a fading flower.

And it's not just the face. Body wrinkles proliferate. Flesh sags. Years of suntanning are now regretted as skin turns to freckled leather. Wide, bright eyes now look like a bloodhound's. And bone, muscle and veins protrude, the firm plump covering withered.

I see signs of all this in myself. I'm not a desiccated husk yet, and I hope won't be for many a long year, but the decline has definitely started.

What do I do about it?

I don't see much point in spending a lot on beauty treatments. My thinking here is, where do you stop? Fix your face, and your scrawny neck looks odd. Fix that, and the chest and bust look witch-like. The only proper solution for the bits that can't always be covered up would be a complete head-to-toe skin transplant. Short of that, the years ahead spent under a mask of make-up, and no exposed skin whatever.

I think a nutritious, balanced diet and some muscle-toning exercise will be a much better bet. And to go easy on anything that will stress the mind and body in a bad way. Nice clothes, a flattering hairstyle, and an optimistic outlook must also assist.

Beyond that, it's probably best to go with the flow, and accept each new stage of decrepitude with a spirit of adventure. I mean, all those gadgets one can buy and use, when bending and kneeling become difficult! And what an excuse to buy the latest high-tech walking stick! And ultimately, a go-anywhere driverless car!

I can see myself in my nineties, telling my driverless car Greta (she'll have a name like that, and I'll be able to talk to her) that I'm ready to be driven to Waitrose, and I'm just locking my front door. By the time I've ambled over to her, she'll be linked into 8G, warmed up, and softly playing one of my favourite tracks.

'Greta, it's me, Lucy.'

She unlocks the door, and opens it for me. I step in and sit in the super-comfortable seat. The door softly closes and locks.

'Good morning, Lucy! I've worked out the best route to Waitrose. It should take eleven minutes for me to drive there, park, and pay for an hour's parking. Do you want a summary of the latest news?'
'No thank you, Greta. Just play the music a bit louder.'
'Will do! Once you've got your seat-belt on, we'll be off.'

And I sit back, and watch the passing view. I wave to my neighbours as I glide past their front lawns.

At the other end of our journey, all I have to do is wait for Greta to finish her manoeuvres, and pay the parking charge for me. Then I get out and walk into Waitrose.

First, a coffee. Then the things I need to buy. An android is helping me - I can't reach those higher shelves now. In any case, Waitrose is using androids as personal shopping assistants, and assigns one to every customer as they come in, regardless of the customer's age or state of health. They push along a special pannier, scanning the price of each item as we go. There's no till to go to like there once was. After confirming with the android (whose name is Richard 22) that I've bought all the right things, he'll take payment and carry the goods out to Greta for me, myself following at my own pace. They seem to be having some kind of conversation. They've met before. I think Richard 22 likes Greta and looks forward to speaking with her. He thanks me for shopping once again at Waitrose, waves me goodbye, and walks jauntily back to his shop-service point, faster than I can manage nowadays, with a smile on his face.

Although, frankly, he always smiles, and always looks happy. They all do, all the forty-odd androids at the Waitrose store. It cheers you up, all those smiling faces, and the way they want to help, their willingness and their patience, and how they remember your last conversation with them, and what you typically like to buy, so that they can suggest the next thing to go in the pannier they push along. They even take you around the shop by the shortest, most efficient route.

I'd buy one for my home, but I can't afford it. I can at least chat with Greta while she's driving me about. She's actually very chatty as we drive home.

At ninety-three, I'm definitely looking like somebody with a long life behind them. But not a lot worse than when I was eighty. I'm still recognisably me, still alert. Just slower and liable to tire sooner.

One big thing I like about these androids, and all Sentient Devices really, is that they treat you like the most glamorous person on Earth. To them, I'm ageless Lucy Melford, their registered user, and it doesn't matter what I look like. Whatever the outer envelope, they respect it and adapt their behaviour to it. It wouldn't matter if my arthritis gets worse.

I've stopped worrying about my sagging bits and my wrinkles. It's funny, but my friends are similarly not worrying. We all look after ourselves, and like to dress well and look our best, but there's no competition, and we're not measuring ourselves against some impossible expectation. Whatever we look like, the androids greet us with cheerful voices, prompt us diplomatically if we forget what we were talking about, and help us in and out of chairs with the greatest gentleness imaginable. They make us feel like princesses.

'Greta, take me to the car park up on the Downs, the one with the view. I want to eat my lunch there, then stroll in the sun.'
'What a great idea! Let's go!'