The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

I can just picture a long line of mobility scooters slowly putt-putting across an unending flat landscape. With a senior landing in a ditch every now and then.

The concept of days of the week vanishes in a place where no one goes off to work and every day is the same as every other day.

here in the Netherlands there are thirteen thousand people “missing” from prison.

some years ago Berlusconi was presented with an award for his human rights’ record by none other than…Muammar Gaddafi.

We never talk about “non-native citizens” or “immigrants” in here, only about “foreigners.” Whether they have Dutch citizenship or not makes no difference. Political correctness is a rarity.

The accompanying note from the doctor: “Take comfort in the fact that there are more ailments you don’t have than ones you do.

I slipped and fell in the tub. Managed to drag myself back into bed with a great deal of effort and pain. The immediate impulse is not to want to call for help. It’s that mixture of pride and embarrassment that stops you.

A daily annoyance: packaging. Cans with tabs you can’t wedge your finger under, vacuum-sealed LIFT UP HERE corners too small to pull, childproof cleaning products, applesauce lids, impossible to twist open prosecco corks, blister packs: they’re all specially designed to make it as difficult as possible for feeble, trembling, old hands to manage.

A new record was set recently: in clearing out a deceased resident’s room, they found something in the refrigerator that was seventeen years past the expiration date.