John Smith woke up
All things considered, the day was already off to a flying start. When you hit the grand old age of 118, simply waking up at all is quite the achievement.
First things first: morning MOT. He prised open his left eyeworking finethen the rightbit foggy. Quick rinse and a couple of dropsgood as new. He bent everything that would bend, applied a dab of oil to those bits that wouldnt. Forward and reverse gearscheck. Neck diagnostics next.
After confirming that everything still turned and clicked where it ought to, John did the customary two heel taps and three hand claps, officially kicking off the day.
At eight sharpjust as scheduledhe got the usual call from the Pension Office.
Morning, Lottie, croaked the birthday boy, cheerfully into the receiver.
Good morning to you too, Mr Smith, replied Lottie, sounding about as upbeat as a weather report in February. How are you feeling?
Cant complain, John beamed at the phone.
What a pity, Mr Smith. Thats my fifth warning this year because of you! Its been thirty years since you switched to the state pension!
Sorry about that. I heard theres an increase this month?
Yes, an increase she sighed, now sounding like a deflated accordion. Youre not working on the side, are you? she ventured hopefully.
No, sadly, Ive more than enough money for my needs.
Hmm pity. All the best she said, and before she could finish, hung up.
At nine oclock, John sat down for breakfast with his great-great-grandson, who didnt actually live with him, but always managed to waltz in using his own key. Upon entering, hed usually start fussing about with measurementsone day the kitchen, the next the bathroom. Then hed sit around calculating materials, scrawling out quotes, doodling furniture.
Today, hed forgotten his tape measure.
Grab Granddads old one off the dresser, John suggested, with a wry chuckle as he poured the boiling water into the teapot. Your grandad left it behindhe always said it was more reliable than the lot of us.
The young man just sighed and sat down to eat the famous ancestral scrambled eggs.
At ten, our hero stepped outside for a smoke.
Oh! John! Smoking again? the neighbour called out from across the courtyard. You do know smoking causes He cut himself off, taking in the sight of the sprightly supercentenarian, whod started smoking at precisely the age most people die of what smoking causes.
Were off to London today.
Oh? What for?
Bit of a ride on the Tube, pop by Trafalgar Square, have a gander at Big Ben before they decide to knock it down.
Nothing much to see, really. Big Bens Big Ben.
Have you ever seen it?
Yes, oncecame all the way down to our village.
In a coffin?!
No, in a carriage.
How old are you, anyway?
Turned eighteen, John said, biting the filter of his cigarette.
Go on, pull the other one.
No, really. I got held back a few terms.
Well, congratulations on adulthood then!
Ta very much, John said, and made his way back indoors.
At eleven, the director of British Telecom rang, practically begging him to change tariffs. The one John was still using had become so obsolete, it only existed because of him, and if you recalculated for modern money, BT actually owed him a few quid each month.
At five, John went shopping. The supermarket gave you a birthday discount equal to your age. John picked up a cake, a kilo of bananas, and a widescreen TV. With the change, he hired a taxi and some porters to haul it all home.
At seven, the local funeral home called to remind him, kindly, to collect his insurance policy and slippers at long last.
At eight, the guests arrived. John laid the table, flicked on the sparkling new TV, and poured the wine. The toasts were rather brief; no one seemed sure what on earth you wish someone whos already made it further than any tortoise. So they just got up, one by one, and raised their glasses in respectful silence.
At ten, the police turned upa noise complaint, as apparently, there were elderly residents next door (the irony baked in). John himself opened the door, turning the coppers perception of reality inside out.
John toddled off to bed close to midnight, with most guests having staggered out either to their homes or, in a few notable cases, to the hospital. Smiling to himself, he slipped off his finger the little golden ring that had kept him alive all these years, and tucked it under his pillow. On its side, in the tiniest script, was the magical inscription his wife had commissioned before she went: Live For Both Of Us.
And so, being English and therefore somewhat duty-bound, John did just that.
