This is the secret to growing old well: Frances Whiting

I have decided that this is exactly the sort of old woman – if I am given that privilege – I want to be an eye twinkler, writes Frances Whiting.

Frances Whiting’s take on the secret to growing older.

When I was studying for my journalism degree, one of the many part-time jobs I had was in David Jones’ make-up section.

I was behind the counter one day when a woman aged in her – I’d hazard a guess – late 80s/early 90s asked for a particular shade of lipstick. I don’t remember its name, but I do remember its colour – fire engine red.

I complimented her on her choice, and she told me she had been wearing it for decades and that she had instructed her family to “pop some on” her when she died.

“I don’t know if I’m going to heaven or hell,” she said, “but I want to make sure I look damn good when I get there.”

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I also worked in Harrods in London for a year in their Designer Dress Room which was very, very fancy and where I met another older woman who was buying a lovely silk jacket and matching skirt. It was pale pink, eye wateringly expensive and, she told me, her “going away” outfit for her wedding.

I must have looked a little surprised when she told me of her impending nuptials because she smiled and added “It’s my first marriage, actually – I wanted to wait for a really good one.”

Currently I play tennis once or twice a week with a good friend, and we often play next to two women who are older than we are, and I’m not going to guess their age, in case they read this column and I get it wrong. Let’s just say old enough to be retired for a few years. They wear comfortable clothing as opposed to actual tennis gear, and one of them wears her hair in pigtails, every week.

Frances Whiting. Picture: David Kelly

And let me tell you, these two women are having a whale of a time.

There’s not that much actual tennis – although there is some – but in between hits there is lots of talking by the nets, and gales of laughter. Doubled-over from the stomach sort of laughter. One time, one of them had to sit down for a minute she was laughing so hard.

And I have told you all, in another column, about the older woman in the elevator with the walking stick who said to me that it came in handy for “shooing all the men away”.

Now all of these women, it occurred to me the other day, had one thing in common. Every single one of them had a twinkle in her eye. A merriment. A mischievousness.

And I have decided that this is exactly the sort of old woman – if I am given that privilege – I want to be. An eye twinkler.

I thought about this the other day when I was a guest on a panel and there was a question on how each panellist (of wildly differing ages) thought about growing older.

And I thought about each of those women and I had my answer.

You know that phrase “growing old disgracefully”? I don’t want that – although all power to those who do.

No, I want to be like those women with the twinkle in their eyes, the one who hints at not just who they were, but who they still are. I want to grow old, not disgracefully, but playfully.

Who’s with me?