I’m going to preface this with a stubborn, let’s say strong-willed, statement of certainty: Nobody will convince me that I ever, regardless of my mental or physical state, belong in a home.
Call me old fashioned, but I like my backyard. I’m a terrible gardener, but it gives me a certain tranquility to try.
So if anyone ever throws me in a straight jacket and sits me in a bed alongside some old bloke who can’t remember what he had for breakfast, I’ll be kicking and screaming and throwing weeds in your face.
It’s a hard-line stance, I know. When they threw my friend Geoffrey into a bed and started feeding him baby food, he had ankles bigger than a draught horse, moved at the speed of a South American tree sloth, and spat like a llama with a head cold.
There was no option. But let’s just say what he didn’t know didn’t hurt him.
At this juncture, I confess – I’ve been perusing the increasing amount of paraphernalia which seems to be landing beside my recliner about retirement living, or whatever ageless terminology they use to make us feel better about ourselves.
“Over 50s” is a personal favourite because it means there are people younger than me giving it a go.
Ageing gracefully. Bollocks.
I’m not big on the words in the brochures. It all becomes very complicated. And a little pushy. Final even.
I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I might actually be “looking”.
The pictures though are persuasive.
A lawn bowls green with lights and all-weather cover. Now that’s a dream come true because when I grow up, I want to represent my country.
Maybe, just maybe, if I lived at one of these places, I could initiate a 12-hour-a-day training schedule. I could represent Australia at a world championships, a Commonwealth Games even. I could hone my bias to within a millimetre of every position you could imagine a jack or kitty to be.
With a rigourous training regime, I could turn professional. I could play for money and fame.
Think of the travel, Wanda.
Add in a billiards obsession – you know, to perfect my understanding of angles? A set gym routine, laps of the pool at dawn, stretches overlooking the lake, like a Canberra politician convincing themselves that a morning walk clears the head. It does? Add it to the plan.
My garden’s nice, but I did see a picture of a pinball machine in one of the brochures. I’m not sure how that helps fulfil the green and gold ambition, but it does seem fun. Croquet’s for old people. And pickleball seems like a poor excuse for tennis. But bowls is a bonafide sport.
Yep, there’s hope for this old dog yet.
Hey Wanda, do we have any chia seeds in the cupboard, or kale in the fridge? I feel like a shake.
