WELL-off financial advisors are running around “warning” people that the current economic downturn isn’t going to end soon.
So if we – especially those of us in our 40s – don’t spend our money wisely, we’ll be working until we’re 80.
I’m long past 40, and a good whack past 60. So I’m guessing that ship has sailed.
And if these grubby financial jokers are right, and not just trying to scare wage earners in their 40s to part with their hard-earned for some advice lined with a suspicious odour of self-interest, then I’d better get Wanda packing a port full of tracksuits and sarongs.
Because our fate will rest in the hands of superannuation funds which – again, according to our well-intentioned money brains – will go the same direction as the economy, buckle below projected interest rates, and pay us all enough for a three-course meal of orange wedges, two-minute noodles and a scotch finger.
The fleece of the tracksuits for winter and the breeze of sarongs for summer will have all seasons covered when we finally make our way to our tropical island beach hut where we’ll live off the grid and I’ll learn how to spear fish.
We’d call on our children for some return on investment, but they actually are in their 40s and because they’ll be working until they’re 80, they’ll be in no position to pass on any of their savings to us.
Might I add at this juncture that it took me quite some time to come to terms with retirement.
I liked work. Still do. However, I discovered that an additional six hours a day made a huge difference to my social life. I now have friends. Well, sort of.
I go to the club when I want, read books when I want, and watch replays of 80s sitcoms as I wade through puzzle books in search for some sort of mental satisfaction – whenever I want.
For that reason, I have no intention of going back to work. Aside of course, from the three hours a week I spend writing this column which I expect any day now to be wrapped in plastic.
I figure if I tell everyone it takes me three hours, the editor will consider he’s getting value for money and ignore the wretched feedback that falls into his email.
In the meantime, as my super spirals into a can of baked beans, I’ll be finding ways to battle my way past the never-ending recession and into my 80s with enough money to appreciate the ensuing good times.
Note the optimism, intentionally designed to offset the pessimism of the bean counters who are telling us good times won’t arrive in our lifetime, unless of course we’ve done a course in flipping burgers to bid for minimum wage employment.
What, may you ask, happens to the 16-year-olds who currently work for minimum wage? Such is the dog-eat-dog world we’ve created, it would seem.
Wanda would be waiting in the corner with her pocket crossword, sipping on a cold latte and poking her fingers into a recyclable bag of over-salted chips.
After three hours, I’d have exhausted my attention span, at which point we’d swap places and she’d do a three-hour shift of her own, all the while celebrating equality and the choices of past governments.
However, none of that will happen because I won’t be enrolling in a two-all-beef-patties degree. The only barbecues I’ll be tending will be as a volunteer on a six-week Bunnings cycle, or over the fire I’ve started to cook up the island fish I’ve speared.
I’ll be living how I’ve always lived, cautiously, within my means, and taking every day as it arrives. I’ll be going to the club, taking Wags for a walk, and appreciating my beautiful family.
Hey Wanda, while you’re at the fridge, would you mind pouring me a glass of milk? Half full please.
