Old Friends

Old Friends,
Thank you for coming. As a child, I lived in Old Heath Road and, recently, I learnt that the Heath was nothing to do with Heath but to do with nearby Hythe, a harbour and a word for Harbour. That came as a shock. Being the road to Rowhedge and Fingringhoe, I had guessed all those years ago that the countryside to which it led was heathland.

I used to go on cycle rides to Rowhedge and Fingringhoe in those days – and I always thought it was a miracle anyone could balance on a two-wheeled bike, but I became so laissez-faire I got to free-wheeling down steep hills at break-neck speed…

But that is another story. The Old in Old Heath Road with which I started this speech to all you folks here has now reminded me of other old things. Like ruins. And people who live longer than they should. Living beyond their design model. There is a road in Clacton where I live now that is simply called Old Road. I wonder why it was called that – it was presumably new when it was first built. And there is old money like pennies, shillings, threepenny bits, two bob bits, half-crowns, ten shilling notes, farthings….

Being old oneself is a sort of far thing, a state of existence that still seems distant, a place you never get to – until you do.

But that gets us round to the nub of my speech. You can see it at the top: OLD FRIENDS. And I thank you all for coming here, friends from every part of my life. Some older than others. But none of you look old to me. You look the same as I remember you. Even those of you who have grown so old you hardly ever go out but still have kindly come here to support my speech. You, too, look as young as I remember you. And some of you know some of you others here - and this is the first time you have met together for some years.

No need to stay silent. I see some of you silently nodding, smiling, a few of you staring straight ahead as if someone has scared you stiff. Well, rest easy, you are here now. And soon I will stop talking – and allow you to talk together. So, old friends, remember you are only as old as you feel. And if you want to stay silent, remembering our times together – please do so. No one will make you talk back or even listen. And thus I stay silent, too, at harbour’s end. Rowhedge and Fingringhoe, et al.

There was never a speech to hear – never one to deliver. Speech-writing was never my forte. Move on, there is nothing happening here.

(Slightly adapted from my speed-writing exercise at the Clacton Writer’s Group a few evenings ago.)