At the height of the summer season Glyndebourne’s lawns look bleached. A panorama of pale, straw-like grass, bone Panama hats, white starched shirts, white linen tablecloths and, crowning it all, puffs of white hair. I watch men in mothballed tuxes negotiate the rose garden, unsteady on their feet, and fragile, bird-like women in pearls pushing their husbands’ wheelchairs, as I worry I should intervene.
I’d joked to friends I’d find my rich husband at Glyndebourne, but you’d have to be a gerontophile to get laid here. At 45, I’m the youngest by decades. The only attendees younger are a couple who confess they were given free tickets and a woman in gold lamé draped over an ageing partner.
