There's a bloke I know who calls himself a Druid, is five years older than me, and also calls himself a 'retired pensioner' to anyone who asks him what he does with himself during the weekdays. I don't remember him being in gainful employment since the late 1970s, but what do I know? He has just had a big shock.
He got home on Christmas night to find his flatmate dead - or 'horribly dead' as he was supposed to have put it. I don't know what happened or how it happened, other than the flatmate was found dead in a chair.
It was all pretty jolly in the pub last night, save for the man who now lives on his own, looking as though he had just been woken up from a 100 year-old sleep and was trying to do a quick catch-up about what had occurred in his absence.
He was there tonight, and seems to have caught up already.
As well as him, there were about fifteen other dazed or desperate looking men in the pub tonight, and no women other than two mothers with children who looked as though they were trying to escape Christmas using sales-shopping as an excuse.
After the third attempt to respond to a question put to me by the man sitting to my right, and after the third time the attempt was thwarted either by him, or someone else crashing the conversation as if the universe had them set in its centre like a precious jewel, I decided that this was not the night for me, so I went home to cook.
Well I don't think that I will ever be able to call myself 'retired' no matter how weakly I work into my dotage, or how much money should fall into my lap as a result of some other sudden and horrible death.
It seems that if I spend more than about two days at home, I just get in the way and irritate the fuck out of everyone.
I'm looking forward to work on Monday, not that it could be called 'normality'.
Changing times. - When I first came to live in my village, the chateau (above) was lived in by a woman and her three children, who soon bec...
8 hours ago