60 and too old to register
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday December 15, 2012
Section: Opinion

Three years ago, my local supermarket made a very smart decision. It hired an Italian blonde bombshell called Nella as a check-out chick. I use the term ‘chick’ loosely, because this bella donna was 57 and came with an accent like Sophia Loren: “Everything you see darlink, I owe to spaghetti.” She fast became a charismatic addition to the 12-items-or-less aisle, so much so that a great many of the 60-something bachelors in my suburb started favoring her express lane.

I got to know Nella because she was the friendliest  face I’d seen in the service industry in quite some time. She quickly learnt my children’s names: “Buon giorno piccolini!” and they squealed “Ciao Nella!” when they spotted her behind her cash register. In no time, she knew lots of her customers’ names, and she and I had running gags about noticing each other’s hairstyles when no-one else did. (“Darlink, ‘e’s not looking at your hair, you know.”) For me, she was just the happy fix I needed after collecting yet another trolleyfull of nappies and Cornflakes; all with a headstrong toddler hell-bent on her own shopping expedition.

I tell you this because 2 months ago, Nella was told to go. No reasons given. Coincidentally, a bank of do-it-yourself checkouts arrived soon after, confounding us all with their bleeps-ings and ding-ings. My children still scan the cash registers for Nella, but there’s just the usual teenagers learning the hard way why you pack eggs on top. Buying milk and bread is no fun anymore – I miss Nella’s motherly banter.

I’ve bumped into her near school and at the train station. Each time she recounts for me her latest  rejection:  “You’re not quite what we’re after.” Or “Sorry, you don’t fit the job description.”  She can’t understand why her years of experience in the service industry count for nothing. I notice she has shed a bit of her sparkle – she’s agitated about money, glum about her dwindling job prospects.  I can see her self-confidence waning.

I am astounded that someone who is ‘goodwill personified’ cannot find a job in retail –  it’s because Nella is now 60 – hardly old, but positively ancient when out job-hunting.  Goodness knows, she could teach those snippy young shop-girls a thing or two about being warm, efficient and polite. She’d cost the same to hire as any 21-year-old, be markedly more reliable and give to her customers that lovely reach of human kindness. When shop owners call for someone ‘dynamic’ and ‘creative,’ Nella is their perfect candidate, except those descriptives are now code for ‘young.’

Nella now inhabits society’s never-land – too old to be considered an asset, too young to be cast out as unproductive and dispensable. Is it because she is seen as a greater health and safety risk? Or that someone her age is automatically regarded as less efficient, or unwilling to learn today’s technologies? I’d imagine there are plenty of 20-somethings showing the same tendencies (especially on Mondays.)

When I was a kid, we knew all our shopkeepers’ names . As it happened, our butcher’s name was  ‘Alan Butcher’ (the perfect marriage of occupation and identity.) He wore a blue and white striped apron, had one knuckle missing and always had blood on his hands. I used to scare myself imagining him de-boning his finger but was placated by the slice of polony he always handed me over the counter. Our family and his were bonded by chops and rissoles for a decade, part of an affectionate familiarity between customer and proprietor, the kind that breeds long loyalties.

If competition between businesses is fiercer than ever, you’d think longevity in a job – the wealth of accumulated experience – would be prized. But the great swathe of baby boomers now hitting their 50’s and 60’s are discovering workplace ageism is now turning its prejudice towards them. Funding retirement is a scary prospect if there’s little job security in middle age. How have we allowed people at the peak of their working lives to be stripped of their responsibilities, their status and once cast out as dead wood, their dignity.

I hear stories from my mum and her girlfriends, now well into their 70’s, about how they are made to feel invisible:  how shop assistants and service providers look through them, past them, as though younger customers are more important. Last week, a lovely neighbour of mine in her late 60’s recounted how in the queue at her favourite deli, she feels pressured to let the younger set go ahead of her, because, of course, she has nothing better to do. Out shopping, or at the bank or the post office, my mum says she now makes a point of being polite, but assertive. What really annoys her is when seniors (in her book, anyone fifteen years older than her) have their requests ignored until there’s no-one else left to serve. Society needs to re-learn how to appreciate its oldies.

I’ve already had my first taste of ageism. Ten years ago, at the decrepit age of 35, I tried to get income protection insurance to safeguard my reporting position on one of Kerry Packer’s national current affairs programmes. Even then, during the golden days of Kerry’s empire, I was told that no-one would insure a woman of 35 working in television. Indeed, I’d be lucky if I was still in front of the camera much past 40. I was horrified. TV presenting is no country for old women.

I don’t like what I see as a culture against ageing in this country, where younger workers are prized for their risk-taking and submissiveness and gray-haired ones are being encouraged to surrender their independence well before 65.

At my favourite bra and knickers shop, one of the sales assistants would have to be 75 not out. I seek her out and spend a fortune there because she is the doyenne of bra fitters: the old school kind who demands I lean over to ensure my cup does not runneth over. She is also the bosom lady who flicks her tape measure from around her neck and whips it around my chest so she can tut-tut: “Yes, you’re up another cup size, but it’s because your back is getting wider.” Good grief. I can take it on the chin from  her, but I don’t want that kind of bad news delivered by some perky A-cup bra-girl reminding me why three children are bad for your assets. I want a matron. And she is brilliant at her job.

Noone wants to be forced into early retirement. I’d rather keel over from exhaustion than boredom. My friend Nella is not ready nor willing to be a pensioner – she wants to stay employed, play that cash register like a piano and feel good about being needed. Turning 60 should be no impediment. And if you happen to be in the market for a part-time shop hand, Nella might just be your gal.