God's Waiting Room

John's birth had been greeted in the village with much fanfare like it was the second coming of Christ. Its nickname for those who had escaped the constant air of boredom and tedium that hung over it like a permanent fog was God's Waiting Room on account of its elderly residents forming an orderly queue to meet their maker. Anyone under the age of 65 was considered to be a spring chicken and amongst its residents half a dozen had reached triple figures and received a letter from the Queen that was valued in the same manner as if they'd been handed a winning lottery ticket. John's birth meant the median age of the village had been brought down by about a week to that of about 72 years and six months. It did however bring up the total number of villagers without their own teeth but for now that was through no fault of his own. One of the added benefits for John's parents living amongst the walking dead was none of them ever complained about his crying on account of them either being stone deaf or simply from having the benefit of turning their hearing aid down. This was the favoured trick of many a married man who'd smile and nod at his wife whilst he sat in blissful peace and then happily doze off in their chairs having ticked off another couple of hours before their impending doom. Waiting for death is a terribly tedious affair, it's a bit like being a cat really. You nap most of the day then prowl around at night very slowly. You think you own the house you're walking about in but you don't really. It's been put into one of those awful buy back schemes just so you can put one bar of the fire on during the winter to see you through to the morning of another day without freezing to death. Occasionally someone pays you some attention and you get a little pat on the head but generally when you're up and about you're mostly getting under someone's feet and you wait at the door for someone to let you out because the dexterity has gone from your fingers. No one wants to live forever when they've passed the age of 60. They leave that fallacy as a surprise to the younger generations to discover for themselves.

Dementia in old men is of course never as heartbreaking as it is in older women because men never grow up and believing themselves to still be 21 or younger in their minds is nothing different. They've spent a lifetime never listening to what's being said so they're no less forgetful for having not taken a word in anyways. Yet somehow they can still remember the goalscorers in the 1987 FA Cup Final and a wealth of other useless information only helpful for shouting out on the TV quizzes that become companions later on in life. 

When John becomes old enough to read, if the local library hasn't been shut down by then of course, he'll find the world is his oyster with all the books available in huge print the same size as appears in children's first books. That being said with the standard version of Tolstoy's - War and Peace being around 1,400 pages alone in small print he's going to need some jolly big muscles to lift the large print version. Mind you it'll pin him down wherever he's sat so he'll have no choice to try make his way through it until one of his parents chooses to come and rescue him. Should cut down on the lack of child care available locally as well. Just leave him with a tray of biscuits and a glass of milk and hope the boy has a strong bladder because he won't be escaping from his chair anytime soon.