Dammit! I’m sick of being told I’m over sixty-five and must stay confined while the young pups are soon to be allowed out to play. Why, in this day and age, is sixty-six considered old? My father is 104, and admittedly he’s not the dashing young thing he once was, being as he’s wheelchair bound after a bad fall last year, but he’s still got all his marbles and can argue the toss with the best of them, even if his dentures do rattle around a bit in the process.
I appreciate the ‘still-wet-behind-the-ears’ kiddies, who are presently running the show in most governments, think of us as has-beens, no longer profitable to the nation. They’d love it if we all died off and saved them the cost of our pensions. Of course, it wouldn’t be considered politically expedient to actually state that on the BBC, or CNN, or whatever news channel is relevant to your country, but take my word for it, privately it’s what they wish for.
Of course, the one exception in all this is Donald Trump. He’s well over seventy and definitely not profitable to either America or the rest of the world. But we do have to remember that dementia can strike at any age. It would be kinder if he were gently led away to a waiting ambulance and escorted to a nice retreat somewhere where he could live out his remaining years in peace and quiet. Hopefully, they would take the rest of his repugnant family and camp followers with him and charge them with looking after him.
Okay, I’m sixty-six, but suppose I were sixty-four. Would I be safe to play out with the pups? And, if I were to have my sixty-fifth birthday a month later would I be expected to rush inside, slam the door, and remain confined until I pegged it, maybe, as in the case of my father, thirty or forty years later.
It’s so ludicrous it beggars belief. I appreciate that the older one is the higher the risk to life, but given they think all us old ‘uns are weak and doddery, rather than peg it from coronavirus I’m probably more likely to absent-mindedly step under a bus, fall of a railway platform and under a passing train, or die from an over-enthusiastic orgasm.
Admittedly, the chances of the latter are somewhat remote. Yet, given that there’s no bloody buses running at present and I never have use for a train, perhaps it’s not so unlikely after all.
Mind you, there is one vital ingredient missing. So girls, if you’re reading this and want to help me test my theory….
Meanwhile, come May 11th when France relaxes its lockdown – I’m outa here!