The Joys of Ageing

Getting older is a bit like being trapped in a world designed by sadistic toddlers — everything suddenly has a ‘safety feature’ that you can’t outsmart. You need a degree in engineering to open a jar of jam, a bodybuilder’s grip to squeeze the shampoo, and a PhD in patience to peel back the corner of a ready meal without it exploding. I used to open things with my hands — now I use scissors, pliers, and in sheer desperation a chain saw!

This morning’s shower turned into a full-scale survival epic. There I was, valiantly lather-free, facing off against a brand-new bottle of coconut body wash, purchased from our local Boots, which was sealed tighter than Fort Knox. The silver film under the lid might as well have been reinforced titanium, welded on by NASA, clearly designed to outwit both toddlers and pensioners. After several rounds of slippery combat and muttered threats, I had to abandon the battlefield, dripping and shivering, to fetch a pair of scissors. Picture it: a soggy commando mission through the house, armed and dangerous, just to get clean!

Now don’t get me started on milk bottle tabs. Honestly, who designs these things — medieval torturers? I can wrestle with a pint of milk longer than it takes to make a cup of tea. Those little plastic tabs are pure evil — you pull gently and nothing happens, pull harder and it explodes like a dairy volcano across the kitchen.

I’m also convinced painkiller bottles are designed by people who want you to stay in pain. There I was, clutching my aching head, staring down a bottle that cheerfully said ‘Push down and turn.’ Oh, I pushed. I turned. I pushed and turned at the same time, in every possible direction short of summoning an exorcist. Nothing. By the time I finally got it open, I no longer needed the pills — I needed physiotherapy for my wrists and anger management for my temper. Honestly, if you can get into one of those bottles, you’ve earned the right to whatever’s inside — even if it’s morphine.

Jam jars and cleaning bottles are clearly in cahoots. One’s vacuum-sealed like it’s protecting state secrets, the other’s got a child-proof cap that could defeat MI5. I’ll stand in the kitchen, wrists trembling, wrestling with a jar that refuses to budge — I’ve tried tea towels, hot water, rubber grips, even whispering threats. Nothing. Meanwhile, the cleaning spray mocks me with a trigger that needs the hand strength of a lumberjack. By the time I’ve finally cracked one open, I’ve used language unfit for breakfast and lost the will to clean or eat toast.

Finally, you’d think after all these years of loyal wine drinking, I’d have mastered the fine art of cork extraction — but no. Every bottle turns into a mini workout and a test of patience, strength, and vocabulary restraint. The cork either crumbles like an ancient relic, refuses to budge as if glued by the gods, or pops out suddenly and sends me reeling like I’ve just won with my Coop scratch card. Honestly, at this point, I deserve a sommelier’s badge just for getting the thing open without calling for reinforcements!

I’m off to Williams, Judy will have something to solve all these problems!

Steph