Werthers Originals

OK, so on Feb 1st I retired. Two of my employees took over the business and I am out of it. I’m 58, and I haven’t got a thing to do. I also incidentally, don’t have much cash, so exotic hols or highclass hookers are out. Besides, I suspect the missus might have something to say if I sneak off for an exotic hol. In fact, I am going to have to earn a bit of money.


Not from this. This is just for my personal satisfaction, and if some people enjoy reading it then that’s fine.


But let’s get one thing straight.


This is not some smug holier than thou guide to the “third age”. At no point will I be saying, “honestly, I’ve never been busier!!”


I genuinely do not know what the hell I am going to do, but I know what I am NOT going to do:

No charity work

No voluntary stuff

No gathering with other like-minded old crusties to go hiking across the Cairngorns, whatever they are.

No stumbling around Lidl at 10.00 on a Monday morning fighting the other old geezers for the last pack of Werthers Originals

And DEFINITELY not what is on the list my missus rather enthusiastically has given me:
cooking
cleaning
ironing
vacuuming
shopping
sorting out the gas bill
sorting out the gutters

When this was all in the offing, I imagined a diary full of items such as:

Matinee at the National
To the Ivy to discuss publication of my memoirs with Druscilla
3.00pm private viewing at Christies – check out that Georges Grosz sketch!
Deadline for first chapter of memoirs – Druscilla getting impatient!
Arsenal v Man City: Director’s Box
4.30pm Manicure – well why not?
Red letter day! Druscilla’s extended my deadline if you get my drift


I now look in my diary and see the first appointment:
9.30 Podiatrist


I just got back

I mean, come on.

I'm 58, not 68. 78. or 88.

Up until this morning, although I may not be quite the athlete I used to be, although my sixpack figure may nowadays owe more to a sixpack of Leffe than of the muscular variety, although I may occasionally have to leave the nightclub before 4.00am, although my once lush head of curly locks seems now to have more in common with a reflecting convex mirror, I liked to think that I still had the ability to give off a whiff of testosterone, and to display attributes and behaviour of a raffish, dangerously handsome rapskallion, a smooth talking silver fox that still had the power to cause the odd heart flutter and blush of the cheeks in sophisticated women of the world, and I am not talking about defibrillators or the menopause.

Huh.

So I'm sitting in the doctor's waiting room this morning. Only other occupants were an old geezer, flat cap, rattling, phlegmy cough (must have been about 80), and his equally decrepit, liver spotted wife, both leaning like grim death on their walking sticks, even though they were sitting down.

In comes a jolly, 40-something dogooder with a handful of pamphlets, spies the funeral home fodder, and makes a beeline for them.

“Hello” she says breathily, trying to thrust a leaflet into their clenched fists, “I am from Age Concern, and in this cold & wet weather, we are giving out information to the elderly about help & advice they can get with insulation, draft proofing, and other ways to keep warm. This leaflet explains…”

And to their credit, the old geezer looks her in the eye and says, “…actually we have an architect friend who has given us professional advice with regards to our insulation requirements.”

She looks a bit deflated by this, and peers round.

She spots me.

She sidles towards me.

I’m thinking: you cannot be serious. You cannot. Be. Fucking. Serious.

I make a point of looking away. I close my eyes. I feign unconsciousness.

“Hello, I am from Age Concern, and in this cold weather…”

“HOW OLD DO YOU THINK I AM?!?”

She backs off.

Unbelievable.


That’s it for now.


Oh, one bit of EXCELLENT news.

I (accidentally) found the iron when turning on the heating