When Sheila Hancock first sat down to begin writing her new memoir in 2016, the volume in question was intended to be an inspiriting book on the subject of old age. Its pages would, she hoped, describe fulfilment and contentment as well as how best to keep your aching back straight (believe me when I tell you that her spine would induce awe in even the sternest pilates teacher). “People are always stopping me in the street,” she says. “‘You’re a legend!’ they tell me. ‘It’s wonderful, the way you keep going!’ I thought: maybe I can write something helpful about how life can be quite lovely even at my age [she is now 89]. But then… life turned awful. There was Brexit, Covid and rheumatoid arthritis, and my daughter had cancer. I thought: no, I can’t write something lovely. I’m too angry for that.”
Isn’t it possible, though, that this worked out for the best? That her anger is far more inspirational than an account of her gym regime might have been? Some women still feel they need permission to be cross. Looking a bit relieved, Hancock slowly nods her head. “Oh, I do agree – and the wonderful thing about getting older is that you can be a bit cantankerous and odd. I’m not as craven as I used to be. My generation put up with absurd things; we were utterly servile.”
