It could be you

Even though your jacket is zipped up tight to your chin, you look cold as ice as you concentrate on scratching your lottery card outside the fish and chip shop window. You’re in the female 65–69-year-old bracket I’d say, at the younger end of the statistical group that’s fighting to stay alive. You rub your coin fervently, feverishly across the card. Do you fancy your chances? It could be you, that’s what the adverts promise. You’ve a one in 45 million chance that it could be you, but you concentrate on your task so hopefully, my breath catches.

Does it mean that much to you? Why do your shoulders hunch and then droop low as you stare in despair. You’ve a better chance of being struck by lightning; a one in 33 million chance. It could be you, caught scratching your card in a sudden storm. Why does it matter so much to you?

I worry you are one of the 41% of 65–69-year-old women who live alone, one of the two in five who have no-one to welcome them home from the cold. Your thin, haunted face says you needed that money. Was it only to buy the tempting fish and chips or was it to pay an overdue electric bill? It could be you.

I wonder whether you are one of the 22% of 65-year-olds who are childless with a one in five chance of no chance to further your line. There is a worn-down, put-me down stoop to you that tells me you might be one of the 22% of 65-year-olds living in poverty or living with osteoporosis, your bones and hopes crumbling apace. It could be you. Yet, you have a harried look about you as you tarry, long after you know you’re not beating the odds with that scratch card. You’re dillying, you’re dallying, drawing out your precious oasis of spare time.

Are you one of the one in ten women who is a carer? It could be you but your reluctance to move tells me you’re one of the 9% of unpaid carers, working increasingly long, isolated hours in a torrid, tortuous pot of love, duty, devotion and coercive control. You know you shouldn’t loiter; you shouldn’t linger; you’re needed, you’re in demand and that’s not often said of the 65–69-year-old age bracket. Yes, it could be you with your mouth sagging at the edges as if you know the game is over for you.

You fold your arms tightly across your chest like a shield, as if ready to do battle with the frost-biting cold and I see the odds shift in your steely stance. Are you the one in seven battling the icy grip of breast cancer? The lottery finger promises that it could be you. You peel yourself away from the shelter of the fish and chip shop window and reluctantly, slowly shuffle along the littered, grim, grey, pavement. Where are you going? One arm is still crossed protectively across your chest, and your small hand strokes your left arm repeatedly, a self-soothing motion snaking up, down, up, down, down, down. The statistics say there is unlikely to be an upward thrust for your age bracket, only down, down, down into an old age of loneliness, ill health and poverty.

The odds are not looking good for you today. Are you the one in four women facing domestic abuse today? Are you the one woman in England and Wales who every fifth day will be killed by her partner or ex-partner in the name of love or love’s death throes? It could be you. Your body is tensed, and you speed your shuffling feet as if you know your time is up. Game over. Then you take your phone from your pocket and laugh ruefully.

“Not a winner this time,” you say, like it hardly matters. You listen to whatever is said back to you and shrug, a flicker of annoyance (or is that fear) marking your face with another scarring frown line. Will there be repercussions for your failure to win?

“I’ll try again another day,” you say, and your tone suddenly sounds like pleading. “Life is long.”

Statistically, barring world domination and destruction, you’re correct. On average, the British female 65–69-year-old is set to live until she is 82.9 years old. In all probability, you will outlive the male badgering you on the other end of that phone call.

Hang in there. It really could be you.