A light-hearted homage to P. G. Wodehouse—and a manifesto for living one’s seventies with purpose, friendship, curiosity and humour, writes Manoj Maheshwari.
The morning sun was filtering pleasantly through the windows of my Mayfair flat, casting a cheerful beam right across my morning toast, when the front door detonated.
It wasn’t a bomb, but it was the next closest thing. It was my Aunt Agatha, the woman who kills rats with her teeth and conducts her daily conversations in the tone of a foghorn splitting a gale. She marched into the sitting room looking like a Victorian drill sergeant who had found a speck of dust on the empire, trailed by my valet, Jeeves, who hovered behind her like a sympathetic ghost.
“Bertie!” she boomed, causing my soft-boiled egg to jump clean out of its ceramic cup. “It is exactly as I feared. You are sitting here wallowing in breakfast while your family name is dragged into the gutters of absolute eccentricity!”
“Morning, Aunt Agatha,” I piped, attempting a breezy smile that died an early and violent death. “What seems to be the trouble? Has someone insulted the family crest?”
“Your Uncle George has completely lost his senses,” she snapped, pacing the room like a caged panther. “The man is seventy-two years of age. Seventy-two! By all laws of nature and polite society, he should be wrapped in a thick woollen shawl, sitting quietly in a darkened room, contemplating his cholesterol and preparing for the inevitable. Instead, do you know what I caught him doing yesterday afternoon?”
“Practising the tango?” I hazarded.
“Worse! He was in the backyard practising advanced carpentry to build a communal birdhouse for the parish children. He claimed he needed to ‘invent a daily activity to remain useful’. Useful! At his age! It’s unseemly. A man of seventy should be thoroughly useless, predictable and safely out of the way.”
Jeeves stepped forward with a silver tray, glinting with a fresh pot of tea. “If I may interject, Madam, modern sociological thought increasingly sides with your brother. He is exhibiting the classic traits of a Septolescent.”
Aunt Agatha glared at Jeeves as if he had suggested she adopt a pet cobra. “A what?”
“A Septolescent, Aunt Agatha,” I said, catching the ball and running with it. “It’s the latest lifestyle trend for individuals over seventy who refuse to age in the traditional, declining way. Instead of slowing down, looking backward or letting their world shrink, they choose a different blueprint for their golden years. They opt for an active, grateful life focused on sharing wisdom, finding new purpose and remaining mentally and spiritually vibrant. Uncle George is a prime specimen.”
“He is a lunatic,” she counter-attacked, adjusting her hat with a vicious tug. “He has entirely abandoned a traditional, dignified decline. Last week, I told him his chronic lumbago was looking particularly dreadful, and do you know what he did? He smiled—actually smiled—and said he had ‘integrated his ailments into his normal life’. Then he dragged three of his equally senile cronies to a local tavern to debate modern poetry over coffee and cheap wine! Seventy-year-olds should not have friends, Bertie. They should have doctors and long-suffering relatives!”
“But that’s the beauty of it, Aunt Agatha,” I said, warming up. “The herd instinct! Social cohesion! Keeps the old ticker firing. A true Septolescent makes it a rule to have at least three close friends with whom they meet regularly. Whether it is over a robust glass of red wine, a morning cup of coffee or just a bottle of water on a park bench, those gatherings are sacred.”
“And what about his preposterous travel plans?” she shuddered, looking genuinely appalled. “He refuses to go to Bournemouth. He refuses a nice, sedentary hydropathic hotel where one can stare at the sea and wait for the end. He announced he is backpacking through the rugged terrain of Scotland next month. Without luxury! He told me that experiencing new cultures keeps him from stagnation, though he is packing a single case of aged single malt because one must ‘indulge in the finer things while roughing it’. It is an absolute embarrassment to the family.”
“It sounds to me, Madam,” Jeeves murmured smoothly, “as though the gentleman is fishing for positivity in every adverse situation. An admirable mental fortitude.”
“He is a menace,” Aunt Agatha declared, heading for the door. “He walks for twenty minutes every single day, eats nothing but green forage and yesterday, when I told him the country was going to the dogs, he made a pun about it being a ‘ruff’ situation and laughed until he coughed. He puns for fun, Bertie! Laughter, he claims, is his therapy. He says that because he enjoys the small details of life and thanks the Almighty for every new day, he feels like a blooming millionaire. The man doesn’t have a penny over his annuity! It’s a delusion.”
She delivered one final, soul-destroying glare. “I am going to his club to confiscate his walking shoes. If he won’t age traditionally, I shall make him!”
With a final rustle of angry silk, she swept out of the flat. The silence that followed was deeply luxurious. I looked at Jeeves. Jeeves looked at me.
“Jeeves,” I said, taking a restorative gulp of tea. “Aunt Agatha is a formidable force.”
“Indeed, sir. A veritable human tempest.”
“But she proved our point completely, didn’t she? Seeing her side by side with Uncle George is like comparing a rainy Monday in Manchester with a brilliant day at the races. It is impossible not to age, Jeeves, but Uncle George has found the secret. It’s impossible to stop the clock, but as the Septolescent Society proves every single day, it is entirely possible to age with grace, vitality and immense dignity.”
“Precisely, sir. The late philosopher Kahlil Gibran would undoubtedly agree that Uncle George is ageing with true grace and dignity, while Mrs Gregson represents the… alternative. True wealth resides in contentment, not coffers.”
“Right ho. Pack my bags, Jeeves. I’m going to buy a pair of sturdy walking shoes. I’ve got forty years to practise being a millionaire on a budget.”
“An exceptionally wise precaution, sir.”
THE SEPTOLESCENT MANIFESTO: 12 RULES FOR THRIVING
A quick-reference guide to ageing with grace, vitality and immense dignity.
- Invent Your Purpose: Never let the mind stagnate. Create a daily activity, study or work project that makes you feel useful.
- The Rule of Three: Keep isolation at bay by maintaining at least three close friends for regular meetups over coffee, wine or water.
- Experiential Travel: Skip the hyper-insulated luxury resorts. Choose to experience raw local cultures, but indulge in a few finer details along the way.
- Build Strong Bonds: Prioritise respectful, loving and supportive relationships with your partner, children and grandchildren.
- Stay Driven: Cultivate relentless optimism. Always keep an active future project in mind to prevent stagnation.
- Integrate Ailments: Manage your health proactively, but seamlessly weave age-related ailments into normal life instead of letting a diagnosis define you.
- Walk Daily: Keep moving by committing to a minimum of 20 minutes of walking every day, alongside a wholesome, nutritious diet.
- Celebrate the Small Things: Find profound happiness in everyday moments, whether it is an anniversary, a celebration or a great video series.
- Express Gratitude: Master the art of counting daily blessings and always seek opportunities to do good for others.
- The “Millionaire” Perspective: True wealth resides in enjoying what you already have rather than dwelling on what you lack.
- Look for Positivity: Train your eyes to find the silver lining or an advantageous angle in every adverse situation.
- Pun for Fun: Don’t take life too seriously. Embrace humour and light-hearted puns because laughter is the ultimate therapy.
