Conscious of the fact that, to quote the great late Leonard Cohen, I ache in the places where I used to play, I’m investing in upkeep.
This involves spending the inheritance on dental implants although I’d rather spend it on gin, pure silk and French perfume.
“You don’t want to suck your dinner through a straw,” warned my big sister.
But, like the new roof on the house, shelling out for something so unexciting is low in terms of satisfaction.
Every so often I cross the road, gaze up at our rosemary-tiled roof – counting out how many trips up the Orinoco we might have enjoyed – and remember our roofer telling us that it would outlast both of us.
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Still, on wet windy nights, lying warm in bed, it’s good not to hear lumps of concrete splatting on the attic floor and the rattling of old tiles.
The teeth, well, it’s necessary since I’m bare gum all down one side and almost expired on a lump of ham one night.
The retirement 'to do' list now features a First Aid course and tackling the Heimlich manoeuvre.
Last week, maintenance meant the purchase of an electric toothbrush.
Loving bright colours, I chose the rainbow one – it has an orange head and is red and yellow and green and blue. It lives in a case that reads: “Gleaming with pride.”
Indeed I was. I never really clocked how much I was.
It was just that the buttons to change the speed were rather odd.
None of your “White”, “Clean” or “Fast” modes here.
They said: “Werk”, “Yaaass” and “Shhhh!”.
“That’s Dutch,” I told our boy with maternal authority. You want to spoon on a big dollop of authority when you haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.
He looked at me, raised a Paxman eyebrow and went to consult Dr Google.
Turns out my toothbrush is a celebration of gay pride. I’m delighted that all the profits go to LGBTQ+ charities and am indeed gleaming with pride now.
But the lingo on the brush confused me.
“It’s a bit of fun, ma,” said our boy.
Apparently it’s urban gay slang and it’s clear I need to prescribe myself a couple of series of Ru Paul and get down with the talk.
Nowhere is age more apparent than in language.
There is a recipe book in the local bookshop called Bored of Lunch – I can’t pass it without shivering in a prudish way and swallowing a Jean Brodie tut.
The pedant in me raises its ugly head and wishes to yell: “That’s not right. It’s bored with, not bored of.”
When you were raised with the trusty First Aid in English and a mother who was a stickler on grammar, then you despise bad grammar.
The French sprinkle apostrophes like salt across their words... it’s a vile habit.
People are always meeting “with” people these days. Why can’t they just meet them? That “with” is unnecessary.
Still, perhaps it’s “my bad”… that means my fault, I think.
I’m officially neanderthal, albeit with a gleaming-with-pride sonic toothbrush. Yaaass!
We were chatting about nicknames the other day.
Our fella had to explain what “studio gangsters” are.
They’re rappers who aren’t real gangsters. just ones that perform in the studios.
As I’m just retired, work still hovers in the corner of my mind.
My friend sent me a great retirement card that listed all the phrases I will never hear again.
They include “Circle Back”, “Let’s Touch Base” and “As per my last email”… with a little “blue sky thinking” thrown in.
Another friend gave me a card featuring a woman tango-ing across the front and reading: “Goodbye tension; hello pension”.
But the pension isn’t coming for a while yet. How I wish I’d organised a few protest rallies when they put up the pension age.
“You’ll start to wonder very soon how you ever had time to work,” said another friend – a former work colleague too.
We got chatting about people’s nicknames in work.
Take “motion sensor” – someone who does nothing, but springs into action when the boss appears.
“Sun lounger” – someone who bends under pressure; “Blister” appears when the hard work is done; and Sir Bob is the guy who doesn’t like to work Mondays.
We had a laugh. I don’t miss the early shifts but I miss a work laugh. Watch this space, I may have to get a hobby.
