Clive James

Written by Cathoel Jorss, published 11 years ago

Perception is a funny thing. I’m feeling, though cheerful enough, somewhat tired & old, chubby & worn. Men are looking at me. One of them twisted his head to look back and came close to walking himself into a pole.

Another time I was feeling all fresh & funky, I had on this beautiful green print sundress, I scampered early out of the Adelaide Writers Week crowd and began lolloping up the hill. I was laughing with shame, having just inadvertently told Clive James I thought his poetry was quite good, “especially lately.” Argh. As I passed a group of people sitting on the low wall a young man raised his head and sang out, “Ew! You’re old. Get away from me! I hate old people.”

That was fifteen years ago. Today it’s all smiles & waves. Is it the dungarees? The grubby sandshoes? The sunshine? The moon? Billy Bragg puts it neatly, mortality: “Like a pale moon in a sunny sky/death gazes down as I pass by/to remind me that I’m but my father’s son.”