Crumpets are another misunderstood concept in America. Americans seem to think they are something you would have with tea, which to me makes them sound cake-like. But they typically aren’t sweet at all and, in fact, they taste more like a pancake and are best served with butter. You might have them as a snack or for a light lunch. You wouldn’t necessarily have them with tea. I’m not sure where America’s obsession with crumpets and tea came from. I think Americans’ mistake must be in confusing crumpets for scones, but they are altogether different.

  America is much more muffin-centric. We used to have muffins when I was little. There used to be a muffin man who walked the streets selling his wares, much in the same way that milkmen and bakers used to sell door-to-door as well. He used to walk through the streets with a tray on his head and a bell which he used to ring. As children we would then rush out into the street, buy half a dozen muffins and then rush back indoors again. I suppose it’s similar to the way that children flock to ice-cream vans now.

  I like ice cream. I suppose I have a sweet tooth, although I’ve gotten better as I’ve gotten older. When I was young, I could eat a whole box of chocolates in the course of an afternoon. I couldn’t do it now, but I do still like sweets.

  I particularly like American diners and what you might call typical American food: turkey sandwiches, eggs and bacon, corned-beef hash, that sort of thing. I remember when I was young, seeing a film in which someone said, “I don’t know if you think I’m always going to be a hash-slinger.” I’ve never seen anyone slinging hash, but I always keep an eye out for it, just in case. The other phrase that baffled me was, “You’re nothing but a soda jerk.” I mean, how do you jerk soda? Anyway, I don’t much like soda, but I do like corned beef hash whether it’s slung at me or merely served. I like meals that don’t ask very much of me. I don’t like meals that challenge me.

  In fact, I remember almost dying of starvation in Albuquerque, New Mexico, because I couldn’t eat the food. It was too hot. My hosts eventually found something for me to eat, but for some reason they managed to hit upon everything about food that I don’t like. I don’t like vinegar. I don’t like garlic. I don’t like anything that would make a meal startling.

  When it comes to drink, my favorite tipple is Scotch whisky. I don’t like bourbon or Irish whisky though I will occasionally drink the latter. I drink my Scotch without ice because you can’t tell what something actually tastes of when it’s frozen. I’m no doctor, but I do think Scotch is good for your heart. I think it softens your arteries, making it easier for the blood to flow. This is what I tell myself, anyway.

  I was in a restaurant once and had ordered tomato juice without ice. When the waitress brought my drink however, it had ice in it. My host insisted I tell the waitress to take it back and bring back a fresh drink, but this was not necessary. The waitress in question was rushed off of her feet as it was. So, quietly with my coffee spoon, I took the ice out of my drink and placed the cubes one by one into the ashtray. When I had finished I was left with a thimbleful of tomato juice. That’s why Americans like you to have ice in your drink.

  Despite drinking Guinness in the morning and Scotch on occasion, I should point out that I have never been drunk in the whole of my life. Of course, I’ve been lightheaded, where my head has been spinning and the whole room has appeared to move around me, but I’ve never fallen down because I was drunk or not known where I was. I’ve also never woken up the next morning and not been able to account for my previous night’s actions.

  In spite of all the above, I enjoy eating out greatly because it gives me the chance to be seen and to interact with an audience. My perfect day would be to be taken out for lunch, to be photographed and recorded and to come back to my flat. Then to go out in the evening again and eat and be photographed and recorded some more.

  I never say, “Oh, don’t ask me those boring questions.” I answer them and smile and try to look as though I’ve never been asked them before. It’s a slight but not a terrible strain. You do have to rally your forces to be around people. It’s only afterwards when I am alone in my room recovering, that I rest.

  Rereading the above, I sound like the woman at the end of Uncle Vanya180 when the uncle complains of his life and the girl says, “When we are dead, God will be kind to us. We shall smile at our sufferings and we shall rest.” When Chekov’s plays were originally performed they weren’t seen as plays at all. Now when we see them, we realize they’re unduly theatrical. That speech is made by a girl who has never mentioned God before but when she sees the curtain coming down, she realizes she’s got to say something.

  I don’t have a daily exercise program or do anything like Ms. Fonda181 does on her commercials. When I was a model I did exercises. I stood on my head for ten minutes a day because I wanted to get the circulation in my body reversed. But now that I am not a model, I don’t do any exercise because I don’t want to keep thin. I wouldn’t care if I grew to be as fat as a pig, not that it is something that is likely to happen. A lady once asked me, “How do you do it?”

  And I told her, “I am consumed perpetually by an inner spiritual flame.”

  “Oh.” She replied, “Well, I think I must be being fed by one.”

  People also ask me what skin care products I use, but I don’t really do anything particularly special. I use Germolene, which is an antiseptic ointment that smells of wintergreen. It can only be obtained in England and it keeps my eczema at bay. But as regards my face, I use Nivea every day in an attempt to keep my skin soft and to protect me from sunburn. I shave every other day, which I find irritates my skin less.

  Even at the age of ninety, I still wear makeup. I put it on before I go out anywhere. It’s more or less my armor and means I always look the same to people. When I’m wearing makeup, it’s as if I’m wearing a mask. People can’t tell whether I’m tired or despondent or anything really.

  I don’t color my hair anymore, but only because one of my hands is paralyzed now and I can’t easily manage it. The last time I colored my hair, it was violet. I used a coloring I bought from a shop called Manic Panic which used to be on St Mark’s Place. The best coloring I ever used were liquids, but the stuff I got from Manic Panic was paste that you mixed with boiling water. When my left hand became paralyzed it became much harder to do the left side of my head. I used to simply brush it on with an old toothbrush, especially at the sides where my hair was the whitest. But you’re meant to mix it, put it on, rinse it off and then wait for it to dry. That would have taken two hours though, which I thought was a bit too much.

  I never cut my hair now. At the age of ninety I have finally found a way to do my hair. I take some mousse, which looks like shaving foam, and comb it through my hair. Then I put my hat on over the top and only a minimum of hair shows beneath the hat, which I like. I don’t like hair though I dislike being bald even more, or half bald as I am. The Dalai Lama182 might approve of me shaving my head, but I don’t think I could live my life as a Buddhist monk. I’m thinking that they would disapprove at my attention seeking and I’m not sure they’re allowed to wear makeup or drink Scotch.

  Until recently, I never took vitamins. Now I take them. These days I feel positively pickled with tablets. If you were to shake me, I’m convinced I would rattle. I take a tablet of Centrum every day, which is a multivitamin, two aspirins for my heart, an Advil to kill my pain, then there are yellow ones, some blue ones and something else. I’m told I must take the aspirin forever. I believe they thin the blood and make it easier for my heart to work. Urination is very painful for me at the moment because I have cancer of the prostate gland. It takes a long time as well.

  I once told an interviewer that I do nothing on Sundays and she told me, “I don’t think you should say that. Couldn’t you say that you meditate instead?”

  So, I said, “Oh, alright. I meditate.”

  But actually I do nothing on Sundays. I don’t understand why people have a genuine fear of doing nothing and of being alone. Those are the two things that really frighten people. I can’t see that it matters. If you are alone, you are alone. You think your thoughts, you putter about, you wash out the crockery and you file your nails.

  I never watch television during the daytime because it is so relentlessly jolly. I only ever watch it in the evening. My nightly habit is to peruse the channels and see if there’s anything I understand. I flick quickly past anything that looks like baseball, football or basketball. I’ll watch the news and almost any drama after about nine o’clock. I like to watch ABC’s 20/20. Ms. Walters183 is a phenomenon to me because her expression never changes no matter how diabolical the question is she’s asking you. She turns her round blue eyes towards you and says, “Does it worry you that your lover is fifty years younger than you are?”

  She’s on Channel 7 which I watch religiously. I used to watch Channel 2, but now I can’t really discern the distinction between them.

  The news, as I say, is always disastrous. People get run over, people get burned, people fall out of airplanes. I suppose news of disaster elsewhere affirms your own indestructibility. That’s the only reason I can think of for its being so popular. You watch as other more mortal men and women succumb to such fates as being run over by a combine harvester or being hit by lightning.

  I don’t have a favorite television show, but I do have a favorite television show type. I like my programs to be urban, nocturnal and threatening. So my favorite show is, I think, either The Practice or NYPD Blue. I watch them every week, but I understand that they are coming to an end. Law and Order is pretty good as well, but I like The Practice and NYPD Blue the best.

  I like those two programs because the good guys don’t always win. Mr. Mason,184 who was wonderful, always won. He only ever seemed to have to work out who had done it and how. He would always be right. But in The Practice they don’t always win, which to me makes it much more realistic. I mean, look at some of the verdicts coming out of America’s court system these days.

  When I’m at home alone, I don’t wear shoes. I potter around barefoot. It takes me about two and a half hours to get myself ready to go out these days. If I’m staying in however, I just wrap myself up in my dressing gown and stay undressed. I don’t sleep in pajamas unless I’m away from home. In hotels I wear pajamas in case a member of the staff rushes into the room in the middle the night for some emergency or other.

  Recently, I’ve begun to have dreams again. This has surprised me because for many years I would sleep soundly and dreamlessly. I had a dream last night. The whole thing was a sort of yellowish-greenish color, and I remember thinking, “Why is this color in the room?” I was in a wonderful room with a soft light as though it were summer and I were in a garden, outdoors. I was there with a lot of other people. When I got into the room, I started to play chess in my head with someone standing nearby. Now, I can only play chess in very perfunctory way, so as soon as I realized I was playing a game in my head, I knew I was dreaming and woke up. It was about seven o’clock in the morning.

  When I was a child I had the most fearful dreams. I dreamed that people were pursuing me. They came down the streets, moving as though on wheels. I would throw myself on the pavement and cover myself with a cloth in order not to been seen. Then I would look up through a hole in the cloth and see them all looking at me. Someone who analyzes dreams told me my dream reflected a desire by me not to be perceived, which I thought was rather obvious. Of course, the opposite is true of me now I am in the profession of being.

  Not long ago I dreamed I was still a model, and I went to a large art school and took off my clothes and laid on a throne. The students came into the room, but instead of painting me, went over to a far window and started to work on some other project that didn’t concern me at all. This made me anxious. Was I supposed to be here? So I put on a shirt and went into the next room only to find another class who were all standing around waiting for a model to arrive. This upset me greatly as no model wants to keep a class waiting, nor does any human being want to look like a fool. When I woke up, I continued to be upset. It’s interesting how dreams can alter your mood in real life.

  I once knew a woman who claimed that she had never slept. She did, of course, but what she meant was that she woke up so early that it made her worry that she would not feel alert and well when the day finally came. I said to her, “Can’t you just lie there with your eyes shut and think about nothing?”

  And she said, “No. Of course I can’t.”

  What kept her awake, once she had awoken, was the anxiety that she would not sleep again.

  I’m certain that when we die, we do not dream. I was once asked what I would wear to a party to celebrate the end of the world. It’s an odd notion since it would mean curtains for everyone. I welcome death, but I know many people who aren’t as keen to make death’s acquaintance. My answer however, was that I would wear more or less whatever I’ve got. I never buy anything special to wear for any event. I’ve only got four shirts: one of them pink, one of them blue, one of them mauve and one of them green. When the end of the world comes I shall be wearing one of them. Also, I only have two suits: one of them blue and one of them gray. I shall be wearing one of them as well, when the end of the world comes. Of course, if I am too ill and happen to be in bed for the big event, I shall be wearing a dressing gown. So, I wouldn’t dress up for the party at the end of the world, but I would at least dress.

  * * *

  180 A play by the Russian playwright Anton Chekhov, 1860-1904

  181 Jane Fonda, American actress, b. 1937

  182 The 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, b. 1935

  183 Barbara Walters, American broadcast journalist, b. 1929

  184 Perry Mason, fictional defense attorney created by Erle Stanley Gardner, 1889-1970

  CHAPTER 16

  On Being Ninety

  As I write these words, I am ninety years old. My ninetieth birthday passed last year on December 25th 1998.

  The only advantage of being ninety, as opposed to being sixty, seventy or eighty, is that one can look forward to death with greater certainty. When you’re sixty or seventy, the thought of death crosses your mind like a shadow. It disturbs you and worries you. By the time you reach my age you are longing for it.

  Yes, the world around me may be getting noisier, sexier and more horrible by the minute, but at least I can comfort myself with the fact that the end is in sight. Or so I thought. Imagine my horror when I opened the newspaper just the other day and discovered they will soon be able to make us all live until we turn one hundred and thirty. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  The truth is my body is dying on me. These days I carry it around like a horrible old overcoat. As you get older and older, your body begins to decay. You start to smell of death and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  My eyesight has deteriorated to the point where I can no longer see properly. I should wear glasses when I go out, but I am far too vain for facial clutter. As a result, when I venture outside I walk the streets nearly blind.

  To add to this, I am also now partially deaf. This means I appear to ignore the greetings of friends and mishear the inquiries of strangers. The deafness combined with my blindness results in people talking to me as if I’m a non-comprehending child, which can be annoying if not used to one’s advantage. Nevertheless, I remain perfectly capable of comprehending what someone might say to me, were I actually able to see the person in question and hear the words they speak.

  It doesn’t really matter since my legs have given up on me as well. These days I spend more time working out how to avoid making the trip downstairs from my apartment than I ever spend outdoors. When I do get out, I can barely walk more than a few yards and only manage that at a snail’s pace.

  According to those who know, I’m apparently very lucky. Supposedly I’m in good shape for my age. This can only mean there are some very unfortunate aged souls out there in even worse shape than me.

  The dream of living longer, of living forever, is a young person’s dream. Writers have often dreamed of immortality. Mr. Swift185 in Gulliver’s Travels186 told us about the Struldbrugs who devised a way of living long past their sell-by date. What a pathetic sight they were. Then, of course, there was Mr. Shaw and his tragic Methuselah 187. If memory serves me right, and naturally that is one of the first things to go, he lived for a thousand years. What a curse that proved.

  No, ours isn’t a world for old people. Every few minutes there are adverts on the television telling you how to keep young and how to keep lines from appearing on your face. But when you’re ninety you don’t just have lines on your face, you have them all over your entire body. Everything today is geared towards the young, which leaves a terrible feeling of exclusion within even moderately old people.

  Where would we all hide if we lived to be one hundred and thirty? Think of the gadgets we’d need. Every house would need its own elevator. “Ah, but the world would be so much wiser,” say the optimists. I can’t see it myself because as we get very old we lose our wisdom, our language and eventually our mind. If we all lived forever we’d end up with a world in which no one could communicate. We’d all have forgotten how to.

  For me, the absolute nothingness of death is a blessing. Something to look forward to. If I discovered a potion that enabled people to live until they were one hundred and thirty, the first thing I would do is bury it.