Posted by: nativeiowan | September 12, 2019

2019 v9.ol-fart’s tale

This is going to be a tale of an old-fart. An old-fart’s tale…

I think back in time. when I was still a “working-stiff”. Up in the morn, to work by a set time, a morning of bizzyness, a lunch of some sort- often liquid, an afternoon of more dizziness, head home at a set time, call into the local watering-hole, homeward after a set amount of lubricative sedative, family, n home and supper and shower and bed… then up in the morn again.

I cranked and wanked for a solid 30 years. I wore a uniform. Had hours and responsibilities and, as a business owner, I had bills and loans and debt and commitments. Monday – Friday was standard, with at least a half day on Saturday, and usually a quiet Sunday afternoon in-office catching up and closing out.

My job description was never distinct. I never got paid by-the-hour.

In the 90s I was lean and hungry and never said, “…no, I cant”, ever. My commercial loan applications were wonderful works of fiction.

In the new-century… As I was pushing 50, my business had grown, my debts and commitments increased, my schedule cranked and wanked more, and more. Bank-managers/ Wank-managers called me up and invited me out and negotiated for my business. I had good suits, and a bizzy schedule, and flew dizziness class, and had a damn good time of it all. Ended up with over 250 employees.

I “retired” as 2011 rolled around. At that time my routine completely changed. As retired-ol-fart there is no frenetic, demanding routine. Of course there is a routine but its not set-in-stone, or demanding, or penalising like before. What ever routine you have as an ol-fart is of your own making.

I gave up going to the pub and starting drinking at home. I decided I preferred my own cooking so gave up going out at all. My suits go unworn.

I found I normally woke earlier and worked harder once retired. I cultivated hobbies and rekindled old joys such as family and cultivation and dogs and things that shine and go real fast.

One of the things I recall from about 2005, when I was still kicking-arse and taking-… business-names… going into the Point Cruz Yacht Club (PCYC) in Honiara after work…

I’d buy my first liquid-sedative and slide up to what was notoriously referred to as “Table Number One”.

It took me a couple decades to graduate to Table Number One. From the lowly Volunteer, to the young-bloke trying to make a go in business, to the heard-of but still enigmatic Yank-from-the-West, to the guy who owed heaps to all the banks and was known by all.

Table Number One was reserved for the Old-Boys. The Bankers and Wankers and Managers and Accountants and Lawyers… And those business-dudes who owed enough to be impotent.

I was a young-bloke in the old-bloke clique.

So, one day as I dump my first brew down my throat, as I listen-in to the conversation that’s already started, I have a very clear thought… I bang my bottled-brew on the table and say in aloud voice, “Stop It! You guys are talking about your last doctor’s visit, about your next appointment. Stop it. What about fast cars and loud engines and beautiful boats and daring exploits and good looking women and , well, what about talking about fun stuff? Interesting stuff?”.

The collective of ol-farts looked at me for moment, pensively puffed their fags, sipped their quickly warming brews, then returned to their previous conversations.

Today’s story is one of an ol-fart feeling pretty damn good…

I’m 5 weeks and 3 days out from shoulder replacement surgery. And I feel pretty damn good. I’m done with appointments and rehab and physio. I feel pretty damn good.

It’s a hapi-ol-fart tale.



  1. You were lucky , I never made it to Table One which I called the “ship wreck table “

    • Big smiles…

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