A Communication To The GingerZilla.

Old Age Home
Old Age Home (Photo credit: Ghintang)

My Dear Friend Of The Kraken Brethren,

Sometimes Craig, I think we’re too quick to judge those whose only intent is to protect the people from themselves. Queensland police are running around our streets pointing wi-fi scanners at our computers. Evidently their ‘supers,’ ‘sirs’ and ‘mams’ worry about computers having unprotected connections. This could be like their owners having unprotected sex, soon the target of asio sheet-sniffers. Now that oldies have been reassured  that wanking-derived aids can’t happen, being separated from my pc would well and truly bugger my sex life. Our nannys, like everyone else, are repulsed at the image of wrinklies knowing one another, but would be downright violated at the depraved images that I rekindle at every opportunity. Oldies should be separated from their computers it has been mooted, the stupidity they inherit the night they turn sixty-five compels a search for donees to take their cash being the theory.

I erroneously believed that by gradually increasing morning walkies from a few fairway lengths to six or seven kilometres over eroded and rough antediluvian tracks and then completing the uncryptic crosswords, that I would hum like a newly serviced Jag, my misplaced enthusiasm now obliges me to rest up and recover from these exertions. Another shot-down fallacy is the sexpert’s axiom of “while there’s movement, there’s hope,” so out the window goes the vanity and in comes the avoirdupois but what the devil! My barreled torso the major blot on an otherwise relatively well-preserved hunk of man meat. OK, my contemporaries are dead cockatoos unable to verify my boast, but those few moments until the motion detector is turned off are painful to see. Kathleen once observed, ” How I ended up with you, I’ll never know, you’re as ugly as a hatful of arseholes.” In youth such incidentals don’t matter too much.

My morning escapades are actually a cover for nefarious and noxious old man deeds, not forgetting your good self and officialdom’s constant reminder of the sheer stupidity and the ever-present odium of the under-class known as retirees, that being granted a pretence of normalcy is conditional upon us remembering our status with the rider we don’t get too cocky. Those of us who refused to abandon childhood stuff know the bush holds little pockets of secrets and I utilised one or two of these treasures for big-kid pursuits.

The State will benefit from my few forlorn assets and to lessen their haul, have got into the habit of planting $1,000 wads here and there throughout the scrub and have made provision for other eventualities in that very same heath, as I believe you call straggly, shitty scrub. The pension is ludicrously generous, you know, but it’s the price one pays for unnecessary and unwelcome nanny do-gooders and ASIO sheet-sniffers intruding into private lives and bytes. The sit-down payout is so geared that 60% of all pension and welfare handouts expected to be spent on luxury items like slops and tobacco, and of course, tipped relentlessly into poker machines.

In my old place of residence in Beaudesert, conversational companions were a rarity and because of our mutual crossword interest, an elderly neighbour and I developed a talking relationship. Two daughters visited her, usually after they’d done their balls on the  machines and had to borrow from mum. One had a Gold Coast home, the other acreage. “I know I won’t see a cent of it,” she confided without malice.  She died soon after this exchange and I then learnt her estate of $55,000 came about from no other source than the pension. A peaceful roof, adequate food and power is about the only needs of people done with all the material trappings and bullshit of life, ciggies, slops and dining-out fading with the advent of old age. Federal opposition hoping to make capital out of the “carbon tax” will come a cropper with more oldies having the gift of reason than interfering do-gooders would prefer.

I tend to sidetrack, Craig, having left the subject behind, impressionable teenagers masquerading as cops, I think was a point of contention, and guv’mints too, or rather their agents. I have little sympathy or appreciation for the inflated poonses in the medical trade. Eight years after her confirmation of throat cancer, my partner had lately had her larynx removed and her ‘outside’ doctor had been changed to a nearer doctor, the original out-consultant too far away now because the long road trip began taking its toll. She ‘conversed’ via a memo pad and a week before she died had scrawled in large print, NO MORE MORPHINE which two of her mates discovered propped on her chest. It was a general appeal, but mainly for medical personnel.

“I want to be lucid in the few days I’ve got left,” she explained in a follow-up note.

“She’ll take what I give her.” an indifferent Sister huffed, after I appealed to her.

The Doctor had nous and over-ruled the prawn.

On the last morning, the Sister hadn’t forgotten the slight,”Now she’ll get what I decide.” Incontinent and standing at the foot of her bed while the sheets were changed, it finished at 1 pm.


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