Noelle McCarthy: Quaking ... at the relentless march of time

You don't have time, when you're getting on with life, to imagine what it will be like when it all slows down. Photo / APN

I am scared of growing old. Old, old I mean, not merely seasoned. The sort of old that remembers D-Day. And the old money. The sort of old that needs a stick to get to the shop.

Cate Blanchett under all that make-up at the start of Benjamin Button, the old person who struggles to climb on to the bus. I'm afraid of the ageing that wears out the body, that makes it hard to get around without help.

I'm afraid of gnarled fingers, and liver spots and one good ear. I'm afraid of dentures and support stockings. And I'm afraid of the rest-home in Epsom as well.

I'm afraid of getting old because it's just this week occurred to me. The truth is, I never thought I would. I'm well aware of how arrogant and silly that makes me sound, but it's hard, when you're 31 and healthy with an iPod full of music, to imagine you'll ever be anything but.

So I haven't imagined it. I haven't ever imagined what it might be like to be enfeebled, or fragile, or just not as strong as I used to be. I have never conceived of a time when I wouldn't be attractive, or "current" or quick. Who does really?

You don't have time, when you're getting on with life, to imagine the time when it will slow down, the time when it will eventually all fall away.

And then two things happened that made me think about it. The first was a creative exercise I had to do, where you write a letter to yourself, from yourself in old age.

Required to imagine myself at 80, I pretty much drew a blank. What would I look like, what would I be doing, where would I live?

I literally had no idea. After a half an hour's brainstorming, I had succeeded in clothing this ancient, imaginary self, in silk blouses, and antique emeralds, and the full length skirts Juiliet Hogan is doing at the moment.

I had installed her in a city apartment "in a foreign city", Paris possibly, or Berlin. That had the added advantage of making her bilingual as well.

This woman is widowed, I decided, men living shorter lives than women, still. She has daughters and grand-daughters whom she tyrannises and conspires with respectively and, at 80, she also keeps exotic birds and plays mah-jong with her friends. (Thankfully, I have 49 years in which to learn more about mah-jong, having, at this point in life, only the vaguest idea what it is).

And that is the make-believe version of myself at 80, elegant, accomplished, comfortable, well preserved. It's a nice little fantasy to have created but the reality may be far less pleasant, I fear.

The reality is that your mind may flourish in old age and your memories become vivid, living things but the body will always be marching towards decrepitude. What is there to do about that? We shrink as we get older, we grow smaller and frailer, and we feel things like tiredness and the cold. These are natural things, but I'm afraid of them.

I'm afraid of having no appetite and needing less sleep as I grow old. I can think of nothing worse than living in a perpetual state of wakefulness and having tired old bones.

What I'm most afraid of is not being seen anymore, the way I'm seen and noticed now. I like being looked at when I'm walking down Queen Street, swinging to my iPod with my lipstick and my bright shoes. Old people are invisible, to young people at least. They don't exist unless you're looking for them and, when you are, they're suddenly everywhere, walking slowly, slowly down the street, or waiting in a faceless little huddle for a bus.

My ego fears being 80, because I'm afraid of losing the thrill of the gaze.

The second thing that happened last week though, went some way towards ameliorating my self-centred fear.

I went and saw Bill Cunningham: New York. Bill Cunningham is the legendary photographer who's responsibly for the "On the Street" section of the New York Times. He pretty much invented street style and has done more than anyone to document the changing fashions of the past 50 years. In doing so, he's also created a visual history of the city he loves. And he's still doing it, shooting the peacocking women of New York City well into his 82nd year.

As an interview subject, Cunningham is a gift. As a human being, he's a joy. It's impossible not to be moved by his innocence and delighted by his charm. His philosophy is, in essence, a simple one, based around an insistence that "beauty is there if you look for it" and "money is the cheapest thing".

He's grown old on the streets of New York City, but watching Cunningham in action is life affirming because it reminds you that it's not the time we have left to us that's most important, but what we do with it that counts. And what better cure for fear of losing the gaze but opening your own eyes and looking at the wonders all around?