Being of a mature age is a bit like being in a club.
You get a card that gives you all sorts of benefits, the leader of the club sends you a letter every so often to let you know your club is working for you, and there’s a membership fee.
The card is of course our pensioner ticket, the letter from Centrelink telling us how much money we can and can’t have, and the membership fee being the taxes I’d been paying for more than 40 years as an honest worker, helping tick over the economy of our great nation.
I’ve never been one for clubs. They require a conversation with people I don’t know, who ask lots of questions about things I don’t really want to talk about.
I can’t often help myself. I have opinions. And I have this remarkable ability to solve issues in less than 20 minutes, even the ones I don’t really want to talk about. So it would be heedless of me not to share my wisdom with those who beckon.
If you want to call me an opinionated old mongrel, join the queue.
I’ve found in recent times though, that we’ve had to form clubs to get by in this electronic-driven modern world.
Let’s take, for example, the Academy Awards. Movie of the year was a film I can’t watch unless I have a subscription to Apple.
Yes, I have a smart TV. But that doesn’t mean it comes with Netflix, Disney, Amazon Prime, Paramount, Apple, Stan, Kayo, Flash or any other live stream player.
The notes from our Centrelink leader haven’t been overly friendly lately, so I’m not in a position to have them all.
I could, in all selfishness, choose the one I like most. Or I could join the Streamers. Not my choice of name, but let’s humour the old souls and move on.
We have half a dozen couples in a group. Each of us has a different television stream. Most services have cut down on the sharing of passwords and accounts, so we can’t do that any more.
Instead, we take it in turns to host movie night.
Once every six weeks, it’s out turn to cut – thinly, because George from down the road seems to think visiting the neighbours’ house is an invitation to get his money’s worth – a kabana stick, cube the cheese block, and scatter Jatz crackers around the living room tables.
We’ll put out a few chips, but baulk at anything that requires oven treatment due to the amount of crispy pastry that inevitably finds its way into the crevices of the Lazy Boy.
There are always a few who like to impress. While I won’t participate in the contest, I’m always grateful for a piece of Joan’s famous vanilla slice. Who’s Joan, you ask? She’s the one in the group with the great vanilla slice.
I digress. Speaking of lazy boys, I’ve bought foldable chairs that we take with us to the house of the week, so I’m not wrestling with George and his wife for a corner of the lounge that sinks at the best of times.
While it sounds like a great idea, it does have its drawbacks. My current subscription is the channel which has the rights to motor racing. Nobody watches motor racing.
Except for George, who thinks it’s okay to knock on the door at 3am in the morning to catch the latest Formula 1 Grand Prix. This is not okay, even if you do have a six pack and a packet of popcorn under your sweaty wing.
Hey Wanda, it’s bloody George again, wanting to watch the TV. Wanda? You’re not Wanda.
George, get the hell off my couch and out of my house. You can watch the replay tomorrow.
