Riotous Retirement Read Online Free PDF Page B

knew each other well enough to enjoy talking on almost any subject including changes in social norms and even politics. Each knew, or at least suspected, the political affiliation of the others and the argument and verbal jousting—while partisan—was never aggressive or spiteful. It was about winding each other up, teasing and creating humour. Every afternoon that this group met, the young barman would listen intently. He never said much but had learned that if he paid attention he could gain new knowledge, or some insight, or at least a different point of view about a current topic that he could subsequently use to impress his mates!
    Lamenting and complaining about the culture of the day compared with those of yesteryear was perhaps the favourite topic.
    “Well I think kids are just lazy little sods, that’s what I think,” said Bill. “They’re driven everywhere these days, to school, from school, to their footie practice, to visit their friends, why can’t they bloody walk or cycle?”
    “It’s not so safe for kids to be out alone and walking these days, Bill,” argued another at the bar.
    “Rubbish. The dangers faced by kids today on their own are no more than it was in our day. It’s just that we hear more about it. But it’s a great excuse for getting a lift home of course.”
    “How are you getting home today, Bill?” asked one of the women.
    “Okay, okay, I get your point” said Bill, “but you must agree that is an entirely different matter!”
    At this the barman and the others started laughing, and with this interruption the discussion on children’s travel in today’s society came to an end.
    In these sessions, as the quantity of liquor consumed increased, one or two of the men might doze off for short periods and another might endeavour to tell the same story he told earlier in the afternoon but in a louder voice, and Bill could usually be counted on to slide off his stool just as the clock approached 5.00 pm. In fact so certain were they of the same routine that the two ladies always managed to catch Bill at his first slump and prop him up at the bar before he hit the floor.
    At 5.00 pm on the dot, Alex, the caretaker at Burnside village, would arrive at the back door of the pub and come through to the bar to announce to one and all that Bill’s taxi had arrived and was he ready to leave now? What was waiting outside the door was not a real taxi but the wheelbarrow the gardener used when he was working around the village.
    Alex gently escorted Bill through the back door out onto the concrete area and Bill, wide awake by this time, was lowered very gently, bum first, into the barrow. Alex would then pick up the handles,  rev the pretend engine “brrrrrm brrrrm”, and off they would set down the track from the pub and across the car park at great speed! The engine could be heard all the way as it changed gear at the corners and out past the bowling green and eventually along the path to Bill’s place, where he was gently rolled out and helped onto his bed.
    “There you are, mate. That’s you home safe and sound,” Alex would assure him.
    “That’s great,” Bill would respond. “Thanks very much, mate, I think I might have a bit of shut eye now.”
    All went well for many months until one fateful afternoon as they were whizzing down the path and almost at Bill’s place when Helga, the village manager, suddenly appeared around the corner. And that was the end of that— Retirement Villages Act, Health and Safety Regulations —Section 3, Paragraph 2— Thou shalt not ride on or be driven in a wheelbarrow .
    “I don’t care how low the centre of gravity is or how safe it is or how Bill enjoys the ride, I will not risk some bloody kid using their phone to take a movie of you pushing Bill in a barrow and then see it on YouTube with a Burnside sign in the background.” Helga explained this very clearly and forcefully to Alex at the meeting she insisted on the following day.
    Ever