WANDA’S been at me to “out” myself, to reveal my true identity.
Regular readers of this column will understand that the editor and I have a cosy arrangement. I give him 600 words of finely-written prose, and he deposits money into my bank account.
The only addendum to that agreement is that he never lets anyone know who I am.
That could all come crashing to an abrupt halt if Nick Kyrgios does the “outing” for me by taking me to court after libeling his poor cotton socks.
The Queen P may know who I am, but she’s busy being in charge. She’s got no time for guessing games. Or maybe she does? Another column, another time.
Nevertheless, there is nothing sinister to my desired anonymity. I’m not wanted in three states for high-end crime, although I must say the hydroponics unit is working wonders for the lettuce I’ve got growing in my ceiling.
I’m not hiding out of disgrace, although my children may feel some of my “dad” jokes have put our entire family in awkward positions of silence.
Wags may also question whether I’m hiding. The sunglasses and hooded jumper while we walk are not for the dog’s benefit.
I bag his poop just like every other walker on the course, but as much as Wags sees the need to smell the butts and bits of four-legged passers by, I’m rarely in the mood to hear how the house dog in Number 22 was mauled by a mongrel from the adoption centre.
Neither that, or any other neighbourhood gossip. Just keep walking, Wags. Just keep walking.
Which is where, I suppose, I explain why the veil, the cloak, the non de plume.
You see, I’ve had my day in public life. There was a time in the 70s as a young reporter that one of the local wanderers used to knock on the window next to my desk. Tap, tap, tap, until I responded.
He’d then spend half an hour sharing his thoughts on the government of the time, before asking for a cigarette and a few cents.
“So why did you bother talking to him?” I hear you ask. Why indeed.
When you publicly muse on topics which others also carry opinions, there are people who feel compelled to share with you their own cogitations – in great detail.
And Wanda will tell you that while I’m happy to spend a few hours deliberating over a keyboard to offer up my view of the world, I have far less patience in my older years for those who care to disagree.
If we’re looking for someone to blame for this introverted approach to semi-retirement, we can look no further than the small man with his glasses hanging from a piece of twine around his neck at the bowls club.
He sees me coming from a hundred yards, and bails me up in a corner of the bar with a beer in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other, whacking me on the shoulder each time he wants to add emphasis to his particular point of view.
Like a bullet point. A long, drawn-out, list of bullet points he’s been saving for the moment I had to walk in the damn door.
On one occasion, I was yet to put my bowls bag anywhere near a green, and he’s in my face badgering me for the opinion of some other columnist I’ve never heard of.
And then he kicks on about some commentary he’s heard on an obscure midnight radio station. I may indeed agree, but the last thing I’m going to do is give him ammunition which he sees as encouragement to continue.
I can be held responsible for my own views, but to be tarred with the brush of an entire profession is beyond my capabilities.
He’s one reason I don’t go to the club as much as I’d like. Meanwhile, he’s sinking pint after pint in his shorts and thongs as he enjoys the fruits of my membership fee.
Wanda is well-intentioned when she asks me to be “public” again. But I think I’ll just air my grievances in monologue.
If anyone feels compelled to engage in group participation therapy, start a Facebook group where you can find like-minded friends to bore you senseless.
Hey Wanda, I’m done. Let’s go find a nice cafe for coffee and cake – somewhere I won’t get recognised.
