Yesterday I counted how many times I heard, in so many words, that it’s ever so cold for this time of year. Thirty-five.
Sunday, 24 March
Eefje has a folder in which she collects articles about elder abuse in care homes and nursing homes. Some of those institutions leave their charges wallowing in their own poo more often than not.
After reading all the stories about neglect and intimidation, I am inclined to appreciate our own home a bit more. Which is daft, of course, since things being worse somewhere else doesn’t mean things are any better in here. As if it’s a reason to be ecstatic if you don’t have to lie there for three days in a loaded nappy.
The folder came to light after I asked Eefje if she’d ever heard about this ratings list. She had. We discussed the plusses and minuses of our own home at some length. Conclusion: there’s work to be done. Proceeding with caution, we shall see what we can achieve.
The Economic Policy Bureau has put forward a plan to weigh the costs of care against the actual health benefits. In the case of old people, there is usually little health benefit to be had; a serious operation may result in another year of just muddling through, if that, and then it’s curtains for you anyway. So if you are determined to have yourself patched up no matter what, you had better have quite a bit put away, because you’ll have to cough up the money for it yourself. No endless string of surgeries for me, ta very much, even if I had the money. One thing less to worry about.
Old people tend to doze off at times. Mrs Bregman gave us a masterly example the other day: she fell asleep at dinner with her spoon in her mouth. The custard came dribbling out.
I can sympathize: having trouble keeping your eyes open in the daytime and sleeping poorly at night. Rather inconvenient. Fortunately the fatigue rarely hits me while I’m eating.
The spoon clattering onto her plate startled Bregman out of her sleep. She looked up, astonished, mopped the custard off her dress, or rather rubbed it in further, and went on with her dinner as if nothing had happened.
Monday, 25 March
We never talk about ‘non-native citizens’ or ‘immigrants’ in here, only about ‘foreigners’. Whether they have Dutch citizenship or not makes no difference. Political correctness is a rarity.
The Netherlands is a segregated society: white sticks with white, the Turks stick with the Turks, the poor stick with the poor, the ignorant stick with the ignorant.
In our case there’s yet another dividing line: old sticks with old.
In our home the residents are largely white, poor, not very highly educated old folk. There are two Indonesian ladies and one Pakistani gentleman, and that’s it.
We have little to nothing in common with the rest of the Netherlands, unless you count the attendants. We do have a relatively large number of immigrants among the staff.
‘Right dears, they are, I’m not saying they’re not, but I’d still rather have a Dutch nurse,’ is the prevailing attitude. The older we are, the more reactionary. There are quite a few out-and-out racists walking around in here; the comments heard in the common room don’t lie.
We don’t see teenagers very often either, unless they’re more or less forced by their parents to go visit Gran or Gramps for once. Dutiful visits and stiff exchanges. Teenagers are embarrassed by old people. Old people don’t get it, are hard of hearing, don’t even own a computer, are slow, are clueless about fashion and music, and all they have to offer you is a biscuit. Worlds apart.
Younger children fare much better. They’ll babble away merrily, and haven’t yet learned to be embarrassed. Old people and toddlers get along famously.
Evert has opened a betting shop; it’s one euro per wager on where we’re going on our next outing, scheduled for the day after tomorrow. The pot goes to the one who guessed correctly. If no one gets it right, the bank keeps the money. The bank is Evert. The old rogue. No one has thrown in any money yet.
The excitement grows. Eefje remains tight-lipped.
Tuesday, 26 March
One of the goals of this diary was to emerge as a minor but notorious whistle-blower after I’m gone. That idea has faded into the background a bit.
I do notice that writing is having a therapeutic effect on me: I am feeling more relaxed, and less frustrated. It may have come fifty years too late, but there’s no use in crying over spilt milk.
Mrs Slag has an unpleasant daughter who comes for tea once a month and spends the half hour she is here on a Saturday sourly informing her mother she has already heard whatever her mother is telling her. As if there’s any point in spending that measly half hour berating and correcting your mother of nearly ninety. As long as what she says is coherent, we’re ahead; for while Mrs Slag is certainly no genius, at least she still has her ducks in a row.
Wednesday, 27 March
I’m sitting here in my Sunday best waiting for the outing to begin. Two more hours.
Childish excitement.
I can’t seem to concentrate. I’m just pottering about, dropping things.
I’ve already had to get out the vacuum twice: once for a piece of toast with chocolate sprinkles that slid off my plate, and another time for the sugar bowl I elbowed off the table. I don’t know if there’s a superstition for chocolate sprinkles on the floor, but spilt sugar means you should expect visitors. I’m not in the mood for any visitors right now, so I’ll just mosey my way downstairs and wait for the minibus to arrive.
Thursday, 28 March
Evert couldn’t have known how close he was to guessing the destination of our little outing with his betting shop: the casino.
We had to be downstairs at one o’clock, well dressed, and with empty stomachs. That was our assignment, as per Eefje. Just before our departure she popped round to tell us to bring along some form of identification.
The Connexxion minibus arrived punctually at one, and drove us straight to the Holland Casino on Leidseplein. There we were greeted, with some surprise but great politeness, by a handsome young chap. ‘I see that the average age here is more advanced than we are used to; I would therefore expect above-average sagacity from you as well.’ Elegantly put, coming from such a young whippersnapper.
We swept in, treading thick carpets like monarchs. We were given a delicious lunch and then they explained the rules of the games to us: roulette, blackjack, and one that’s much in vogue nowadays according to our host, Texas hold ’em. With our grey hair we felt a little out of place at the Texas hold ’em tables: almost all the other players seemed to be young punks in baseball caps, hoodies and cool sunglasses.
A miniature racetrack featuring toy horses on rails lurching to the finish caused great hilarity. Grietje tossed two euros into the slot, punched in her birth date, and with a great clatter of coins won back her initial investment twenty-fourfold when her horse came first across the finish line. She doled out her winnings among the rest of us, and we proceeded to turn our full attention to feeding coins into various mystifying machines, and playing roulette, since we’d all been given a little purse at the start with a couple of tokens in it.
We had made a deal when we’d arrived that we would pool any winnings we made, and when an hour and a half later we emptied our pockets at the bar, it transpired that there was a total of €286 in the Old But Not Dead pot. Everyone was jubilant, even the people working there. Apparently we were a refreshing change from all the strutting young show-offs and inscrutable Chinese. ‘A round on the house for the team from Avondrood Hall!’ shouted the bartender.
After three whiskies, Evert wanted to stake the entire €286 pot on the number 13, convinced we’d be going home with €10,000 in our pockets. ‘Thirteen, I feel it in my bones!’
We gave his proposal a Calvinistic thumbs-down.
At five-fifteen the manager personally came to inform us that the minibus was out front. There were already two other elderly passengers on the bus; they stared at our rowdy group with undisguised disdain. Graeme handed them each one euro. Which they did grudg
ingly accept nonetheless.
Once home again, we felt all eyes on us. The place was simply buzzing with a mixture of envy, admiration and disgust.
Friday, 29 March
The banking crisis has brought back the proverbial old sock. From the comments about the run on the banks in Cyprus, I must conclude that a number of residents have withdrawn their pennies from their bank accounts and stowed them under their mattresses, or some other place burglars are sure to look.
I’ve been to see Anja, my office mole, to ask her if she can find out how the quality-control survey was handled by the management here.
‘With the greatest pleasure, Hendrik.’ She already had a gleam in her eye.
It would be fantastic if she could dig a few hushed-up reports out of one of Stelwagen’s desk drawers.
‘But be careful, Anja; don’t take any risks,’ I urged her. To see the dear get punished for her efforts would break my heart. I would blame myself terribly. I told her so.
‘It’s sweet of you to warn me, Henk, but I am responsible for my own actions. Another cup of coffee?’ And then she started humming ‘I Do What I Do’ by Astrid Nijgh.
Good Friday. When I was young we had to observe a moment of silence at three o’clock to think about poor Jesus. If in today’s Netherlands a father allowed his son to be nailed to the cross, our forensic psychiatrists would be at a loss as to what to do with the crazy psychopath. They would certainly not allow him to be free on probation, not if there were other children at home as well. He’d be banned from setting foot in any lumberyard.
I’ll give God one last chance: if at three o’clock this afternoon I suddenly find myself able to run the 100-metre dash in 12.4 seconds, I will return to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church. It’s a promise!
Saturday, 30 March
My fastest time in the 100-metre is currently 1 minute 27 seconds. I timed myself yesterday, Good Friday, at three o’clock. I might be a second or so off, it might have been a metre more or less, but it was close.
My one-and-a-half-minute sprint required five minutes on a bench to recover.
God wrought no miracle; at the hour His son gave up the ghost, He did not give me back my erstwhile fleetness of foot. So He can kiss my return to the Church goodbye.
God did take Mrs Schinkel unto Himself at the hour of three yesterday. Schinkel was very devout, so I presume she deliberately chose to breathe her last at the same hour as Jesus. I never had much to do with her, but she did seem a pleasant sort. She is to be buried privately; good, that’s one obligation less.
‘Pensionado’ has a nice ring to it; it makes you almost wish you were one of those. But then you’d have to spend the entire winter in Benidorm playing boules with all the other Dutch pensionados. And sleeping in some of the ugliest hotels in the world for two months. They have Dutch barbers over there, Dutch snack bars and plumbers, and lately they’ve even opened a Dutch hospital. Were I forced to spend the winter on the Costa Blanca every year, I would sign myself up for the Dutch hospital’s euthanasia ward.
Yesterday at teatime, Mr and Mrs Aupers couldn’t stop saying how wonderful it was to winter in Spain. They had just got back last week. The continuing cold snap in the Netherlands helped to make their pensionado argument even more persuasive.
If a roving travel agent had walked into the Conversation Lounge at that moment, he’d have sold 200 return trips to Benidorm for next winter.
Which would have given us a nice stretch of peace and quiet here.
I am having the kind of day when you wake up totally shattered, do nothing all day, and go to bed at night exhausted from all the resting you’ve done. If only I had a few of those magic pills in my medicine cabinet, the kind that give the youth of today the energy to rave for twenty-four hours straight. Doesn’t mean I’d suddenly have to know how to rave; being able to trudge around for a few hours without getting knackered would be good enough for me.
Easter Sunday, 31 March
I’m not all that keen on Easter. The crafts club has been decorating eggs, to be consumed today at a so-called ‘festive brunch’. The brunch starts at 11 a.m., but most of the residents won’t give up their strict mealtime schedule. If they’re forced to have both breakfast and lunch at the same time, namely the hour normally reserved for elevenses, it throws them off for a week. So they take their breakfast at the usual time, then at eleven a cup of coffee and two painted hard-boiled eggs, and an hour later they’re back for the midday meal.
The three Rs apply not only to children, but also to the elderly: Rest, Recreation and Routine. Recreation is optional, but Rest and Routine are the cornerstones of this society.
The traditional Easter Klaverjass tournament is tomorrow. With fabulous prizes! I am taking part because no one else will partner Evert. I won’t let the boycott against Evert succeed.
Some of the couples play as if it’s a matter of life and death. Evert isn’t averse to putting the boot in, or rubbing salt in the wound by commenting on every card that’s turned over. Until someone explodes and tells him to shut up. I’m sitting there pretending to be deaf and dumb.
I am quite curious to see if our Easter dinner tonight is any good. To be fair, holiday meals are usually quite palatable. But we have a new cook: everything has been coming to the table more overcooked than ever.
Monday, 1 April
The others were fit to be tied. Evert and I won second place yesterday at Klaverjass: a pepper-and-salt set. Evert suggested that we take turns keeping the pepper mill or the salt shaker, and then once a week, at coffee time, make an ostentatious exchange, in full view of all the envious Klaverjass fanatics. That’s taking it a bit far for me.
An Easter surprise attack: three Cantas parked outside our front door had their tyres slashed. Excellent topic of conversation, but it’s a puzzling act of vandalism.
‘It’s an attack on the Dutch senior citizen’s mobility!’ cried Mrs Quint, queen of silly melodramatics.
The police came. It’s the second time they’ve been called in a few weeks. Another pair of bright lights, these coppers: they just stood there and stared. ‘Yeah, slashed, all right.’ Then they peered up the street as if hoping to catch sight of someone just fleeing round the corner with a knife in his hands.
No, the officers could not take down a report. The injured parties could file a complaint online if they liked. The officers were sorry to hear that none of the injured parties possessed a computer. Grietje finally offered them her PC. After this impressive show of constabulary competence, the cops retreated. Upon leaving they distributed some victim-support leaflets to anyone who held out their hand. So that was something they’d achieved, anyway.
A fear of further attacks has set in. The Canta owners are clamouring to be allowed to park their vehicles next to their beds. There’s a great deal of speculation about who’s behind this terrorist act. All agree that Muslims are the most likely culprits. It may not be quite as bad as the Twin Towers, but it certainly doesn’t deserve being pooh-poohed by the police.
‘Here’s a perfect reason to send in the drones,’ Mr Bakker declared.
Tuesday, 2 April
At lunch yesterday Mr Dickhout read aloud a letter from management stating that residents were henceforth required to pay one euro for every cup of coffee and twenty cents for each biscuit consumed. This gave rise to a tempest – nay, a veritable hurricane of indignation. It was an outrage! There was no respect for the elderly any more. The subject of the War was raised, and then the good old days, when everyone was promised a worry-free old age. ‘Then I’ll just bring my own coffee and biscuits!’ Gompert shouted, upon which Dickhout pointed out another stipulation in the letter: outside food and drink were no longer permitted in the common areas either. When Gompert grew so incensed that I feared he would explode or at least have a heart attack, Dickhout decided it was enough. ‘April Fool,’ he said drily, offering everyone a biscuit from a packet he had brought.
Not everyone was a good sport about Dick
hout’s jest; I saw many a pursed lip. Some made a show of refusing the biscuit by way of protest. Others wondered if in that case they could have a second one.
Gompert was looking quite purple in the face.
I gave the joke an eight out of ten, and the execution a nine. Maybe we should invite Dickhout to apply for membership to the Old But Not Dead Club.
Easter Monday, a big day for visitors. Sunny, 6 degrees centigrade and wind from the east, force 4; just bearable enough to take Father or Mother out for a little stroll, but not for very long. When they returned to the Conversation Lounge en masse, there weren’t enough places to sit. I relinquished my chair and went upstairs. I was the only one with no visitors as far as I could tell, and, being the exception, I felt a bit sorry for myself. Up in my room I decided to open the best bottle I had, and three hours later I came down for dinner just a bit tipsy. I had a couple more glasses of wine and barely made it to pudding. I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself.
Wednesday, 3 April
It doesn’t have to be taken for walks, doesn’t smell and never dies. Its name: Paro.
Japan’s birth rate now stands at 1.3. Which means that there are more old people, and proportionately fewer children to visit them. Which is why the Japanese have begun marketing Paro, a robot that looks like a seal, specially created to keep old people company. My advice to the Dutch importer of this robot is to make it look like a waddling, roly-poly little dog that loves biscuits.
Italy’s birth rate is also 1.3. What’s happened to the good old days when Catholics used to procreate like rabbits?
A shortage of babies now will mean, relatively speaking, a huge surplus of OAPs forty years hence. Luckily I won’t be here to see it. Old people are already considered of little social value, but if years from now there are even more of us, I can predict that anyone over seventy will get a nice fat bonus for volunteering to be euthanized.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old Page 9