It’ll be great they said, all the time in the world to do
what you’ve always wanted to do now that himself is retired – to take life just
as it comes, to travel the world, anywhere that takes your fancy. The luxury of lolling around all day in your pyjamas if you so desire, time to venture into the
unknown so to speak, take up some new hobbies, tackle projects that you’ve
always aspired to undertake but never had the time, explore new interests, grow
your own veggies, become completely self-sufficient, how exciting … you’re SO
lucky, they said.
Right.
Have you any plans, I ask.
No.
A man of few words.
You must have some ideas?
Slight note of desperation in my voice.
No, I don’t. I think
I’ll do absolutely nothing for a few months.
Give myself time to get used to this whole retirement thingy. Relax, take it easy.
Right.
I gave him 6 months, in my head.
Generous to a fault.
I would be a paragon of virtue for 6
months. Tolerance on legs, happy go lucky, isn’t life wonderful, la di da di da.
Six months, that is 180 days or
thereabouts which is approximately 4320 hours, a third of which, 1430hours, I
would, hopefully, be blissfully unaware of in the land of nod. That left 2890 hours during which I promised
to be on my best behaviour.
Easy peasy.
Just over half way through the thousands of hours, the
resolve began to slip a little, the halo appeared slightly tarnished, the temper a little
less than sweetness personified. Three
months in and his life was most definitely in danger; big, dirty, black danger.
The chair by the window that normally accommodates my weary
bones was now no longer available.
Ever.
I would roll in after a mornings
work and hover meaningfully … all to no avail. Sensitive, new age man, me arse.
Will you have a cup of tea, I ask.
He never drinks tea. Well sure,
if you’re making one, I will. Jesus
wept. This from the depths of my chair
by the window, looking out on my garden with my birds twittering and singing to
their heart’s content. Insult to
injury. The tea is dutifully made.
Courtesy and grace somewhat lacking.
He, blissfully unaware of the rising athmospheric pressure. I, to my credit, stop short of sulking. Tea drunk, back off out to the working
world. Blue-arsed fly imitation for the
rest of the daylight hours.
Later in the day, I approach
the kitchen, thinking it’s mine now, where’s the crossword, have a pen,
kettle’s just boiled.
He’s in the chair.
Again.
It’s my turn, I scream.
Silently. It doesn’t matter that
it’s a scream because he is snoring.
Head back, mouth open, less than melodic noises escaping from the
depths. Ah, I hear his mother speaking
in my head. Sure he works so hard, poor
man. He must be tired. She had her own chair, by a window too, which
requires a papal dispensation for anyone other than her ladyship to park their
bones in.
She doesn’t have to do battle
with the niceties of selfishness.
Master of illusion, I mutter. Used to work so hard, I growl. Will I smother him with the red or the blue
cushion? I could do it really
quickly. He wouldn’t feel a thing. I indulge myself with misty dreams of a
constantly available chair by the window, the sun shining through sparkling glass,
the tantalising aroma of a dinner that I had no part in preparing, the pink
pigs flying by.
I let it go. I’m
bigger than that.
