Was it an increase in the number of grey hairs on my head that made me feel officially old? The speed at which that single white hair on my chin started to grow?
Was it my falling over running for a train, the fact that I was no longer 23 having somehow escaped me?
No, it was one word. One single word that sent my stomach dropping to the floor and my head spinning in shock.
Madam.
That was it. I was officially old.
What happened to Miss Stephen? Mademoiselle? Ms? Mrs (even though I've never been married)? And, in the USA more than anywhere, Miss Jacqueline? When did I turn into my grandmother?
Madam. It's a horrid word. At least the French word 'madame' has a certain elegance and grace to it. But Madam?
Dear lord, no. In an instant, I was ancient.
And let's not forget a madam/madame is also the word that, historically, means brothel keeper, an older woman who has 'paid her dues' by practicing the profession of those who worked for her.
Now, if I were earning money as a Madam, that might be a different story…
Addressing a man as 'Sir' carries no such connotations. It's a term that denotes the inferiority of the person saying it and comes from a time (at least, where I come from, in Wales in the UK) when men would tip their caps at professionals such as doctors, and even cross to the other side of the road because they felt they were of a lower social class.
Was it my falling over running for a train, the fact that I was no longer 23 having somehow escaped me? No, it was one word.
Sir carries an air of superiority, aloofness, a status to which one aspires and almost has to be earned.
As a Madam, you're just a pain in the neck.
In childhood, 'madam' was a pejorative word used to admonish a child for being a spoiled brat.
If you were 'a right little madam', you were sent to your room. Madam could mean any one of many negative traits – temper, sulkiness, stubbornness – and to be called it meant one thing. No candy. Madam was the thing you had to avoid being at all costs.
As an older woman of 64, it's the thing you want to avoid being for very different reasons. It means you are on the scrapheap. Sitting in the last breath saloon before you are carted off.
It might sound like a term of deference and politeness, but to those of us old enough to be on the receiving end of it, there is no greater insult.
The first time it happened was two years ago. I regularly cross the Atlantic between the USA and Britain, and always with Virgin Atlantic. I've always enjoyed their laid-back approach – warm without being presumptuous, and polite without being overbearing. I travel Upper Class so that I can have a flat bed and get some sleep, and the journey has always been faultless.
Until two years ago.
Gone were the pleasantries of crew introducing themselves and asking what I'd like to be called, and in came the automatic 'Good evening, Madam.'
Eh? I looked over my shoulder to see what relic they might be addressing sitting behind me. 'How old am I? A hundred and three?' I asked, genuinely shocked. 'Please! Call me, Jaci.'
An hour later, when the food was served: 'Would Madam like a bread roll?'
On and on.
Would Madam like some wine, would Madam like port and cheese, would Madam like me to clear the tray table.
No, what Madam would like is for you to revert to calling me by my real name and not making me feel as if I am a nail away from my coffin lid being sealed.
I've asked Virgin about it, and they tell me it was a new 'thing', but no one can quite explain why.
It's odd, because other aspects of the airline are becoming significantly more informal. Now, when you call, there's a man's voice saying, 'Hello you!'
How do you go from being so casual and friendly to making women want to jump out of the nearest exit door?
Even though I am well into my sixties, I live as active a life as I ever did. I work, travel, stay out late and, apart from the odd fall when I run too fast, life has changed very little.
But still we live in an ageist world and, while I have many much younger friends, I am patronized by, in particular, youth in the service industries.
When I go through the phone to find the app to pay for my haircut at the salon, the cashier tries to interfere with a 'Maybe it's…' I know where my app is, for goodness' sake – it's my phone.
But, worse, there's another phrase new to young people behaving like guide dogs, trying to help me through what they perceive to be my struggles – 'all right, my love?'
Eh? I looked over my shoulder to see what relic they might be addressing sitting behind me. 'How old am I? A hundred and three?' I asked, genuinely shocked. 'Please! Call me, Jaci.'
I am not your love. I have all my faculties. I've managed to get to 64 without needing these verbal pats on the heads to get me through the day.
And don't get me started on men trying to explain technology to me.
My dad was a mechanical engineer and I happen to be very adept at understanding instructions and fixing things myself. This week, I even had a man trying to explain the complexities of my bill when I called to ask about the amount.
'The way electricity is calculated…,' he began, and I couldn't hold back. 'I know how electricity is calculated. I'm probably old enough to be your grandmother. I've been paying my own electricity for nearly 40 years!'
Then there's the shouting.
Why does everyone assume that you are deaf? I have minor hearing loss in one ear, but I really don't need your coming to within three inches of my face and yelling at me for fear of my missing some vital piece of information.
I try to hold it together – I really do and am always exceptionally polite to others, even when I might be boiling inside – but I'm a smart, grown woman, not in the first throes of rigor mortis, and I like to think I still have a lot to contribute to society.
Just not as a madam.
So please, Virgin, drop this ridiculous form of address to women. At a time when you're going gender-free in relation to crew being able to choose their own outfits, how about going ageist-free for female passengers?
And yes, Madam will have the bread, the port and cheese, and the wine, please.
And no, Madam would not like her table tray cleared away because she has the appetite of a 20-year-old and plans on stuffing her face and downing Chianti for the next seven hours. So there.
Call me out for being a right little madam all you like.
English (United States) ·