R&R

A birthday passed by recently and now I am less than a year from becoming a septuagenarian. (Look it up.) Perhaps it is showing. I'm feeling more tired than I have been accustomed to at the end of a day's volunteering.

Yesterday after my day at the nursing home I decided with no substantive planning to book myself a week's R&R at some tantalising destination. Honolulu came to mind.

I have visited Honolulu at least six times but the last visit was more than 35 years ago. In all those visits I ventured little beyond Waikiki Beach other than for transport to and from the airport. I hadn't even visited Pearl Harbour.

I checked the flights and checked my preferred hotel and with little more than thirty minutes spent online a week's holiday in Honolulu over Christmas has been booked.

Easy Peasy.

Teenagers

Teenagers are a strange beast. A group of six teenage girls having paid, I presume, to attend a cinema spent the entire movie taking selfies of themselves.

Not only did they take selfies during the movie but they used flash photography to do so.

I suppose they grow out of it.

Faux pas

E has invited me to join her and friends for drinks to celebrate her forthcoming birthday. 'Is it a milestone birthday?' I enquired. 'Yes, it has an 0 at the end' E replied. 'Oh, so you will finally reach 40', I responded.

E reacted to this with what sounded like a hearty, genuine laugh. It was only an instant later I realised the risk of my comment. The fact is that I have no idea how old E is. No matter how you interpret my comment it casts doubt on what age I might imagine E to be and more sensitively what age I might think she looks to be.

I meant well - how many of us use that defence - and my intention was to be humorous. As someone rapidly approaching 70 myself, 40 seemed like a nice young age to hang my humour on but I may have miscalculated badly.

To the point

A gathering to farewell the retiring, long standing gardener and general handyman for my apartment block. About thirty in attendance, all sexagenarians and much older.

S is speaking to me about being a 'benefactor to the arts'; a gross inflation of my frequent attendance at the theatre. S draws the passing T into our conversation despite the latter's obvious intention to join another group nearby.

S: 'I do love the Wharf Revue. It is so topical and entertaining'.

T: 'The subject does not interest me'. And with that, T moves on.

Drivers. Beware. Elderly drivers!

It is a stereotype. Elderly drivers are dangerous. Especially those driving Volvos. Particularly those wearing hats.

Well. Somebody told me that tale thirty or so years ago. And it has stuck in my mind.

I don't drive Volvos. I don't normally wear hats while driving but occasionally I will wear a baseball style cap. Nonetheless I may have turned into an elderly driver. Just maybe.

Friday night. It is dark and rain is falling. City back streets, not well lit. I'm trying to find a car space. I notice one to my right on a one way street. (Overseas readers, we drive on the left hand side of the road in Australia.) Actually I have driven almost past the space.

I check my back mirror. I check my side mirror. My rear window is splattered with rain. I cannot see anything behind me. All is dark.

I start to reverse my car. I continue to reverse my car. Suddenly. Simultaneously. A car horn and a very loud crashing sound.

I have backed into something. I look back at the rear window. Still cannot see anything.

I get out of my car. A small, black (or maybe it is dark navy) Toyota is behind me. Apparently I have backed into it.

The Toyota driver and I examine her little black car as best we can in the rain and darkness. No evidence of any damage. 'I will check it later in better light and away from the rain' the Toyota driver says.

We both examine my car. Embarrassingly, mine displays a few scratches and minor indentations which I know are from previous incidents. One tiny scratch looks to me to be the result of this incident.

Examining my car the next morning I see several other smallish paint scratches, four in total. If the Toyota driver finds similar damage - and none was evident on the night - it won't be worth claiming the cost of restoration through the insurers.

Drivers. Beware. I am an elderly driver on the road. I drive a dark grey, Mazda 3 sedan.

67

Today I am

How the years fly. I am eight years older now than was my grandmother when she died in 1967. At that time it seemed to me that she was an old lady.

I don't feel nearly seventy. I don't consider myself as being old or elderly. I understand why my generation regards seventy as the 'new sixty'.

30

It's been a long time since I went to a thirtieth birthday party.

My own thirtieth was a milestone least wanted. I was happy to turn twenty-one, I was happy to turn forty, I was happy to turn fifty and I was happy to turn sixty. However, I remember that turning thirty was somehow an unwanted milestone. I was definitely no longer a teenager, of course, but I also was no longer in my twenties; an era which still seemed to mark me as being young. Turning thirty meant I was well and truly an adult. That meant I was old. That's how I felt then anyway.

Nowadays I wouldn't mind being thirty again, at least for a little while, as long as I have all my sixty-six years of accumulated wisdom (supposedly) and experience and financial stability. Not that I really think about it. I am happy to wake up every morning, realising I am in reasonable health and I have another day of life to live and enjoy.

Tonight we went to a thirtieth birthday party. The married daughter of good friends. She has a gorgeous husband, a lovely house they are paying off, a secure job and all those years ahead of them.

It was an enjoyable party which I spent mostly with other guests of my generation watching those 'youngsters' full of energy and verve (and who knows what substances).

Why on earth was I a reluctant thirty-something all those years ago?

Biting the bullet

For the past four years a friend has been vacillating over the sale and purchase of property. She desperately wants to move out of her home of the past thirty years or more which is in a prime location but badly in need of refreshment. She wants something equally well located but smaller and in good condition.

The problem is she is scared. The adventurous, carefree woman I knew when we were in our twenties is a cautious, frightened late 60s senior. Unfortunately she has fallen out with siblings who for decades were her closest and trusted confidantes.

I find myself walking a tightrope. I respond to her requests, almost pleas, for advice but as I am neither legally trained nor expert in real estate processes I want to avoid losing our friendship over some perceived catastrophic decision based on my assistance.

I hope it works out for.....and for me.

Plus 1

I was Ae's 'plus one' tonight at a 60th birthday. The celebrating sextagenarian was a teacher with Ae years ago and there was a fair sprinkling of school and higher learning teachers in attendance. Most of these teacher friends brought their spouses/partners to the party and Ae was keen to have me there as a sort of 'beard' in reverse. Apart from Ae I knew only one other person at the party and that was not the birthday 'girl'.

On what was by Sydney's standards a very cold night and in their home near to the ocean our hosts had set up a marquee in the back terrace; a totally tiled area. There was recorded music playing loudly when we arrived so that conversation was difficult to follow. I was in for a night smiling and nodding affirmations to conversations I could not hear.

All the trappings for a live band including microphones were set up at one end of the terrace awaiting a live performance but when it came for the speeches, one each by the birthday girl's husband and the birthday girl herself, for some reason they chose to deliver these from the other end of terrace minus any amplification. I strained to hear their words.

The live band performance followed. This was from a group of four retirees, amateurs all. The birthday girl's husband and three of his mates delivered a concert of about six songs from 'our' era (The Beatles, Eric Burdon, etc) at a decibel level which another partygoer commented to me (shouting at top level) 'artfully concealed that they were singing completely out of tune'.

At a pre arranged moment some guests threw their spare underwear at the band in a vaguely Tom Jones memorial moment. I did not participate although when I made to remove my jacket Ae looked at me horrified thinking I was about to undress to remove my underpants. There was never any chance of that.

Finger food was in abundance as was the range and quantity of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. It was a generous evening and despite the noise levels I did enjoy myself even if I had little idea of any of the conversation around me.

But my days of standing on solid tiles for hours on end are well and truly over.

It's here again....

Today is...ahem...someone's birthday.

Gee, I don't feel it.

Living the seniors life

Twenty-five years ago my parents used to come to town each year during Seniors Week to attend the Premier's free Seniors Week Gala Concerts.

I've been a senior (according to the entitlement for a Seniors Card) for nearly five years but today is the first time I have attended one of these concerts It was also a first for the three friends who accompanied me. The concert was the last of five to be staged in this years series.

The venue is the Sydney Entertainment Centre - in the current trend renamed to a certain airline name; the one you would think could not currently afford such a sponsorship.

Audience assembling in the Sydney Entertainment Centre

The performers were a mix of experience; Leo Sayers and Rhonda Burchmore, and the hopeful up and coming, Ben Mingay, Tom Sharah and Anja Nissen who sang a program of songs from the 1970s. It was the music of Neil Diamond, Carole King, John Lennon, the Village People, ABBA and the like. The music of our twenties.

Leo Sayers 'feels like dancing'

Rhonda Burchmore and Leo Sayers ham it up on the big screen

Big finish for 'Mamma Mia'

Finale

Before and after the concert the NSW Police Band entertained crowds outside the venue playing some classic tunes. The band and the soloist Police singers were excellent; well worthy of the professional performers in the concert itself.

Departing the Sydney Entertainment Centre

I didn't have high expectations beforehand but the concert proved to be very enjoyable.

Cookies are bad for you

I was online researching for travel insurance. We are going on a cruise next month around New Zealand. Most times in the past I have not bothered about travel insurance gambling that nothing would go wrong requiring me to spend money of any significance but as you get older you have that realisation that....well....insurance might be...helpful.

I decided to go with my health fund provider. This involved scrolling through screen after screen providing personal information, health information (don't they already know that from my health claims?), selecting a level of insurance, agreeing to terms and conditions, attesting to the truthfulness and completeness of the information I provided and finally (crucially) my credit card details for payment.

'Wait thirty seconds and don't leave this screen' I was instructed. I did (wait) and I didn't (leave the screen). So what happened then? A message appeared asking me to ask my browser to allow cookies. My purchase couldn't proceed otherwise. And as it turns out it couldn't proceed either. That is, allowing the cookies wiped everything I had done to that point anyway and I had to go back to the beginning.

Couldn't the site have warned at the outset, 'allow cookies'? Why wait to the very last step?

Cookies are bad for you; whether you have them, or not.

Day by day

Ahem, this is not me but I thought it might attract your attention........

I am 23,498 days old. That's 64 years and 122 days including 16 leap years. I was born on a Monday.

If you want to know your age in days try this link.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line......

.....today I'm sixty four.

When I get older, losing my hair
many years from now, 
will you still be sending me a valentine, 
birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I'd been out till quarter to three, 
would you lock the door? 
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, 
when I'm sixty four? Ooh

You'll be older too. 
Ah, and if you say the word, 
I could stay with you.

I could be handy mending a fuse 
when your lights have gone. 
You can knit a sweater by the fireside, 
Sunday mornings, go for a ride.

Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
who could ask for more? 
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, 
when I'm sixty four?

Ev'ry summer we can rent a cottage 
in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear. 
We shall scrimp and save. 
Grandchildren on your knee; 
Vera, Chuck and Dave.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line, 
stating point of view. 
Indicate precisely what you mean to say, 
yours sincerely, wasting away.

Give me your answer, fill in a form, 
mine forevermore.
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, 
when I'm sixty four? Ho!

A gathering

Two trips to the airport today to collect friends visiting over the weekend from interstate. They are staying with me.

The initial excuse for the get together is to attend the Golden Jubilee tour by The Seekers on Monday night. We quickly extended the purpose to a birthday gathering for one of the friends who reaches her milestone 60th birthday on Monday week.

I have nothing to wear

In the lead up to our recent holiday in South America and since then with a female friend travelling half way around the world on the Queen Mary 2 conversation turned to clothes. In short, my female friends, looking to buy travel worthy and fashionable clothing bemoaned the paucity of suitable items for women of their age.

Like me, they are in their early to middling 60s. What particularly annoyed them was their perception that the men's clothing stores feature such a huge range of clothes. 'You (that is, men,) have it so easy' they have shouted at me more than once. Yes, they literally shouted.

Well, the irony is that I see it the same - but in reverse. All I see in those multiple floors of women's fashion is an endless array of choice for my lady friends.

My lady friends say - ahem, shout - 'there is so much menswear on offer and it is all beautifully laid out for your selection' (accusing fingers pointed in my direction).

No, I reply in vain, probably shouting too. It is all a mirage. Once I discount items that do not suit me because of colour, fit, size and/or inappropriateness, what I am left with by way of choice is very limited indeed.

Cliches come to mind; you know, glass houses and green pastures and the like.

That's him, he is one of them......

.....a grumpy old man. Yes, I'm becoming one of them.

I can't go into a bank nowadays without losing my cool and entering into an argument with the staff.

It happened again this morning.

I went into my bank to purchase a modest amount of foreign exchange. All was proceeding smoothly with the attractive young teller with whom I would have flirted when I was three decades younger.

Then he asked me to sign documentation drawing specific attention that my signature would signify acceptance of the bank's privacy policy. I read and twice re-read one dot point in that policy that the bank may disclose my personal information to;

'...our external service providers that provide services for the purpose only of our business, on a confidential basis, for example to a mailing house...'

I concluded this meant my acceptance that the bank could pass on my information leading to me being targeted for unsolicited advertising. The teller couldn't explain the clause to me - although he had drawn my attention to it - but he agreed with my interpretation. I don't think he had a clue.

I asked to see the manager who turned about to be a 40 something suited Queen. He was summarily dismissive of my concern and in precise campy tones he told me, 'if you don't like it, you can go somewhere else'. I should have.

Getting older

Everyone of us is getting older. Day by day a day we are older than the day before. Not a profound thought really but as the cliche runs....it is better than the alternative.

Yesterday my friend Hn and I collected our tickets and travel documentation for our forthcoming holiday. On Saturday week, which is Australia Day, we are flying to South America for a three weeks holiday. It will be our first visit. I'm dreading the long flight but those distances are a fact of life for Australians. I handled them much better when I was younger but nowadays I find myself frazzled by long journeys.

Last night I failed to attend the second of this year's subscription plays at the Sydney Theatre Company. I hate wasting my ticket like that and in the past have only done so in instances of emergency situations. My weak excuse for missing the performance was car related. I didn't have access to mine. It is at the repairers and wasn't made available in time. I'm hoping the car will be ready this morning.

I could have travelled to the theatre and back by bus last night as I did on the previous Thursday evening but last night's play, 'The Secret River', is a much longer play and I just didn't fancy the late night wait for a bus home. The timetable and frequency of busses on my route really are disgraceful.

Maybe missing the theatre proved fortuitous or maybe I was punished because as soon as I went to bed I was hit by illness. It was as though I experienced a ninety minute virus. Tingling feet, nausea, a touch of diarrhoea and a headache. It would have been uncomfortable to feel like that whilst struggling through a three hours long play. Eventually I slept and this morning I feel OK. Well, reasonably OK anyway.

I'm getting older. Things just don't work as well as they used to.

Now......what's the number of the car repairer?

I am five

Today I am five. When I was a baby blog I never imagined I would grow to be five. I wonder how many years old I am in human years? Does anyone know?

An odd couple?

I've moved four floors up in the building I have lived in for twenty-two years. As buildings go it is not a small one nor is it a large one. There are 36 apartments in total, three per floor, and given that the occupancy turnover rate is low I imagined that I knew most, if not all, of my neighbours; at least by sight.

Yet my neighbours in both apartments on my new floor are as strangers to me. I simply didn't recognise them as people I knew to be living in the building.

The man in the apartment to the east of mine is named Js and is probably of a similar age to me. I'm not good at judging ages and I could be wildly wrong. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure Js is of 'senior citizen' age. Or thereabouts anyway. He introduced himself to me and it appears Js has a job involving education. Somewhere in the western suburbs. Js wears one of those Marxist/Leninist style peaked caps. I've haven't seen him bare headed to date. I think I have seen Js wearing socks with sandals but maybe I imagined that.

In brief conversations with me Js referred several times to a flatmate named Rd. My gaydar suggested to me that 'flatmate' was a euphemism. I wasn't aware of anyone named Rd living in the building and wasn't sure if I had ever seen the flatmate. That changed on Friday.

The cable television company sent a technician to install, or was it transfer, my cable service to the new apartment. The point is not insignificant, at least to the service provider, who made numerous follow up calls to me on the matter because to them the correct answer affects what they will charge me for the transfer or installation. Don't ask me because their calls left me more confused than ever but the best bit is that they so confused themselves as well that they decided not to charge me anything at all. A rare win for me.

But back to the technician. He was rather officious to begin with and I was soon very short with him. I wasn't keen on what he was proposing and just as I was telling him so with a degree of oral force, Js appeared on the landing. Js was in a hurry and couldn't wait but when I asked if I could show the technician how his cable connection was installed Js readily agreed throwing open his apartment to us whilst simultaneously announcing our entry to the unknown Rd even as he raced back out to catch the lift.

Rd appeared by our side and he was nothing like I would have imagined. It was an odd couple moment.

For one thing Rd would scarcely be older than his mid twenties. There must be thirty to forty years difference in their ages. Then there is the fact that whilst Js is short, stocky, rather plain looking and of an Anglo-Celtic appearance Rd is tall, lean, gorgeous looking and possesses the darkest of dark complexions. Rd is of African or West Indian origin, I would think.

If Rd was curious as to these two strangers standing unsupervised in his apartment then he masked that curiosity supremely. One look at us and Rd disappeared into the recesses of the apartment not to be seen again.

Once the cable guy and I had exhausted our argument in Js' apartment we quietly made our departure. I wasn't sure whether or not to lock their apartment door and as Rd was nowhere to be seen I made the decision to lock it. Presumably Rd had the wherewithal to unlock the door later without the need to wait for Js to return and rescue him. Well, I hope that was the case.