They say the meek shall inherit the earth. And then the meek will say “Oh, no thanks. We couldn’t possibly run something as complicated as that. We’ll wait at the back here staring at our shoes while the rest of you sort if out”. For most of my life I was a loyal servant of that meekness army. So meek in fact that I would have been reluctant to even talk about it on an anonymous forum like this.
I can think of many examples from
my humble and nervous life story. I’m an Accountant and have been part of the
professional class from the age of twenty-two. This should have provided a good
dose of social capital, particularly in situations where I was the customer.
But this has rarely manifested itself in real life. I have never complained
about service, sent food back or brought something back to a shop, even when I
had the receipt.
I’ve spent my life wearing
clothes that don’t fit, eating food I haven’t ordered and paying bills even
when I can see that I’ve been overcharged.
I called a washing machine repair
man once. He came round and told me the machine was knackered and needed to be
replaced and as luck would have it, he happened to have a beautiful new machine
in the back of his van. I knew I was being ripped off but I didn’t argue. I
handed over the cash and quickly installed his gleaming piece of Chinese
engineering.
As he was leaving, I casually
mentioned that I was looking for a new oven too. This is when I discovered that
he was a bespoke trader in all white goods and could satisfy all my needs. He
duly measured up the space (with his eyes and not a tape it should be said) and
promised to return the following week with the new equipment.
When he wheeled it into my kitchen,
the following Tuesday, I was not impressed. I’m not an expert on ovens, but I can
spot a cheap imitation when I see it. I presume that most of the oven industry
is aimed at discerning homeowners and businesses that fuss over functions and
wattage. Then there is a small market for slum landlords who want to kit out
their decrepit bedsits with the cheapest and tackiest equipment possible. And
my new machine fell into the latter category.
But there was a bigger problem
that the rogue trader should have spotted when he measured up the space. My
existing set up was a separated hob and oven. The hob sat up top of a bench while
the oven was below the bench. The new machine was a combined hob and oven which
couldn’t be fitted as there was the not insignificant matter of the bench being
in the way.
We stared at it for an age before
the trader spoke. “I’m sorry mate, but this is what you asked for” as he
pointed at the piece of cheap crap he had just wheeled inti the kitchen.
My immediate thought was that I
hadn’t asked for anything. I wanted my current set up replaced and he had stood
in the same kitchen a week before looking at the set up.
Then he put on a pleading voice
and claimed he was doing me a favour and he couldn’t bring it back.
Any rational person would have
told him to take a hike, but I meekly handed over the cash and then asked a
carpenter friend to call round and saw off a piece of my bench.
I say all this to highlight that
I’m no longer as humble as I once was. This is down to getting old. I recently
turned sixty and while it caused me to look back on a lot of things that I no
longer have the energy or inclination to do, it also made me realise that there
are advantages to being in the third age. The main one being that I no longer give
the proverbial. I will complain about poor service, ask questions if something
is unclear and not be afraid to publicly moan. I’ve turned into a parody of
Victor Meldrew, which is fine apart from the fact that I’m now six years older
than he was when he started his role in One Foot in the Grave.
But it is better than living your
life like Milhouse in The Simpsons.
I’m trying not to think about the
things I’ll never do again. Some of them I’m happy to give away, like nightclub
visits or drinking Tequila. Others come with a tinge of regret. I’ve probably
played my last game of football. It’s been nine years since my last outing. I
was man marking a guy called Rob. he was in his forties, bald as a coot but
built like a brick shithouse. He had good close control and could run all night
and as a result was normally the top scorer at the seniors five a side night in
Blockhouse Bay. I had been given the task to mark him and the only thing we had
in common was a lack of hair.
I was fifty-one at the time, had
the close control of an elephant and was carrying more weight than a pack mule. I also hadn’t played football for
about ten years. But I stuck manfully to him and think I kept him to single
figures.
I know that there is nothing stopping me from
joining an over 60’s football team, but the truth is that if I had no interest
in the last 10 years, why would I suddenly get an interest now.
I will probably never play squash again. Again,
this is not because it’s banned for over sixties, but I lost interest years ago
and am unlikely to rekindle it.
The meek will inherit the earth. But they will
be sixty when it happens and won’t be afraid to tell anyone about it.