A Senior Moment

Here in Britain, we grey heads are under siege. Thanks to the miracles of modern science, we're no longer a wrinkled minority. But a growing population that's also growing old now encourages discrimination.

The other day, twelve respectable elderly folk who live on the same retirement condominium in the Yorkshire seaside town of Bridlington, each got a threatening letter from the local council. One of them burst into tears when she read it. They were warned, in no uncertain terms, never to do it again. They were told it was dirty and unhygienic as well as being a direct contravention of the rules. They were even threatened with eviction or a spell behind bars.

Their crime? These people had conspired separately, and as a group, to use - wait for it - stale bread from the kitchens to feed the ducks and the seagulls. Outrageous - bring on the electric chair.

Three hundred miles south of Bridlington, the British Police were lined up to keep the peace at a protest demonstration against a new power station. There were students chanting and waving banners.

But then, on the opposite side of the street, the cops spotted Mr. Phillip Clarkson Webb. Mr. Webb is 78 years old. He was dressed in a smart suit. He wasn't chanting or waving anything. He was out for a walk. With his walking stick. So the forces of law ran him in. They seized his stick and branded it "an offensive weapon". He didn't get it back. He's not happy. And neither are the nation's Morris Men.

I don't know if you've ever come across Morris Dancing. It is a rather strange English tradition from the West Country where men dress up in absurd costumes with bells tied to their knees and perform an energetic dance to entertain visitors. But Morris Dancing is dying out simply because the Morris Dancers are dying off, and nobody under thirty wants to do it. It's not exactly 'Dancing with the Stars'.

We grey heads may be covered by law against discrimination at work - but the best jobs still go to juveniles. We can't feed the birds without risk of arrest. We can't even go out with a walking stick, and we're probably not allowed to grumble about it either.
By Ed Boyle