Old crocks

On occasions, the realms of 'getting old' and 'becoming invisible' do coalesce and I've certainly witnessed- and been party to- this over the last few days.   I was in town yesterday evening for the purpose of hooking up with an ex-colleague and, prior to our planned rendezvous, I took a quick bolt down to Red Eye Records to catch up on the latest 'arrivals'.   No problem, you say. Well, there wasn't except that in my travels I noticed that those spruikers, who distribute handbills for 'exotic' massages and fitness centres to anyone and everyone walking by, parted like the Red Sea as Moses (i.e. Me) shuffled by. The Exodus narrative may have been completed but I didn't have even one piece of papyrus to show for my journey.   The same sort of thing occurred again today. My mobile phone account isn't noteworthy for much telecommunications activity these days so that when an 'event' happens- like it rings!- this i...

Mario Millo’s 1975 assertion that Life, Love and Music are the three paramours of today’s man has always seemed to me a convenient and justifiable description of the male condition. It’s as apt in 2015 as it was nearly forty years ago.   Sure, one can get into arguments about the order that L, L and M should be placed but it’s largely academic and I’m certainly no long hair and have withdrawn my application form for membership to Sydney’s Push decades ago. I don’t think they would have accepted me anyway and, besides, I don’t own any black trousers and still remain challenged by Germaine Greer…… but that’s another story.   If you’re going to be unfaithful, then the femme fatale known as LIFE is a worthy mistress. The problem with her, however, is that she is capable of kicking you in the teeth at the most unexpected of times. When my daughter finished high school I was in denial for about six years. You see, it’s only a few years since I finished high school an...

A definite perk of retirement is not giving a shit about one's appearance. Even though I've sported a beard since late adolescence, I used to shave around the monstrosity's borders almost daily. Now, maybe once a fortnight. And no one notices.   Please note! I'm not saying that vanity and delusion have completely disappeared from my psyche. It's just that they have morphed into some other form.....probably not visible to the general population and maybe not even recognisable to me.   As you can see from the accompanying image/ selfie, I have plenty to be thankful for and my newly acquired 'devil may care' attitude towards personal grooming is bolstered by rugged good looks.

Congratulations on becoming a Nan. I do hope that you realise that some forms of behaviour and demeanour that, up till now, have served you well will immediately disappear. Please prepare yourself for the following-   1.   You will develop an insatiable desire to complete jigsaw puzzles and mount the finished products in your lounge room. 2.   Meat and two veg will become the order of the day as part of your ‘home’ meals. None of that fancy pasta shit. You will salivate at the prospect of occasionally (i.e. four times a week) visiting the local clubland bistro for ‘all-you-can-eat’ events. 3.   Underwear will cease to have a ‘comfortable’ characteristic. It now becomes ‘protective’! 4.   You will begin to refer to men as ‘boys’ and your female friends will be referred to as ‘my zany gang’. ‘She’s a hoot!’ and ‘He’s very cheeky!’ will now become part of your everyday conversations. 5.   Lines of punters and/or queues will now have...

    If everyday experiences equate to the futures' markets, then I'm fucked. A double whammy hit me today with visits to the podiatrist AND the hairdresser all in the one morning. Excitement plus.........right? Wrong!   You definitely know that you're on the bell lap of the ghost train when you park your arse in a podiatrist's waiting room. I'll leave it to your own imagination to guess why that is.   Insult was added to injury (I think that's the order it goes in) when the hairdresser focussed her considerable skills on my ears and nose. In fact, more time was spent on most of my facial orifices than on the bloody head.   Then I return to the ranch only to find my facebook page festooned with arthritis, erectile dysfunction and sunset village open day adverts.   And all of this happened whilst I was wearing my Levi 501s. I guess denial and delusion can only take you so far.

      60 IS THE NEW 60     There are many 'positives' to retirement and I'd be the first one up off the chair to list some but, alas, one great 'fuck' also exists. The 'fuck' is that you are 'old'. Now to be more precise, becoming old is not so much a function of being retired but, rather, it's one of being in your sixties.......and that's a real bummer on a number of levels. Unlike the forties and fifties, punters who inhabit their seventh decade on the firmament ALL look like they've been there for that time period. It's true for the men and it's true for the women. I do remember some (not many) people in the forties and fifties who didn't look their age but that automatically ceases in the sixties age bracket. The generalisation that 'looks' lock in with 'age' becomes iron-clad.   Pot bellies, white beards, tuck-shop lady upper arms, bulges (both apparent and latent), lines acro...