Before I even had a chance to cash my last Old Age Pension cheque I happened across a news story from up in The States that put Donald Trump right out of my mind — not that I spend a whole lot of time thinking about Trump.
The story was tragi-comic. Or ironic. Or something. I’m never sure about those terms.
Whichever the case, the item knocked my arse down into my Lay-Z-Boy and caused me to call out to Dearest Duck.
“My Duck,” said I. “Fetch me a double dram of Tension Tamer.”
My iAid batteries were failing but I believe Dearest Duck questioned me about having a piano fastened to my fundament.
I fetched the Tension Tamer myself and flopped back into my chair, the unexpected news from The States leaving me weak and wasted.
It may surprise you that Dearest Duck refused to bring me my mug of herbal tea but lately we’ve been working our way through a marital disagreement.
We’ve had a number of hot and heavy exchanges regarding our increasing ages and the possibility of the time being upon us when we should consider breaking up housekeeping, as the old people [!] used to say.
“Harry, my grey-haired honey,” says Dearest Duck, “I would not say hot and heavy are the proper words. Heated, maybe.”
“You have been riled up, my Duck,” say I.
“I suppose, and would you wonder?” says Dearest Duck.
B’ys, I’ve been suggesting that we shop around for a nice cottage in some seniors’ complex. Dearest Duck absolutely refuses to even think about such a dismal — she says — thing, such a final step, so to speak.
“I am far too young for that,” says she.
I tried to paint an alluring picture. I described wee trim cottages, each with a postage stamp lawn and a rosebush in front and a shady maple tree in the back, circling a perfectly round man-made pond with water barely up to your knees at its deepest point.
“My Duck,” said I, “think how romantic we’d look in summer, stretched off on our matching lawn chairs and — who knows? — both of us sipping drinks with umbrellas stuck in them, or margaritas with slices of lime skivered on the rims.”
Hold the thought on the margaritas. Those quintessential happy-days drinks factor in the distressing story from up in The States.
Thought I’d forgotten about that, eh b’ys?
I continued the art of persuasion with Dearest Duck.
“P’raps, on nice summer days all the old folks would have a picnic down by the pond. Dish up some tapioca pudding, or something,” said I.
Like ‘Ol Queen Victoria at her dourest, Dearest Duck was not amused.
Honestly, I knew I’d lose the argument with Dearest Duck even as I broached the subject but I truly felt it was time to heave the idea on the table, so to speak.
After making her all spitey one last time, I gave Dearest Duck a squeeze and said, “You know I’m only tormenting you. I have a couple of dances left in me yet, my Duck.” Nevertheless…
Okay, approaching the news story.
Raise your hand if you know a party song featuring margaritas.
Right. Margaritaville, Jimmy Buffett’s well-known anthem to good times.
Picture Jimmy hove off in the sun on a tropical beach, eating sponge cake and sizing up his new “Mexican cutie” tattoo. He’s happy as a clam and although he has a sore toe from an encounter with a pop-top he knows that back in his tiki hut there’s a blender filled with booze — margaritas, I ‘low.
For 50 years — 50 years! — Jimmy Buffett has been entertaining folks. His name is synonymous with party, party, party. His concerts continue to sell out. Not only does he sing to his zealous Parrothead fans who have spent their lives following him from venue to venue, but also he sings to people under…well, younger than me and Dearest Duck, that’s for sure.
Although Jimmy Buffett is a seasoned senior, his grin remains as cocky as a rooster’s.
“Alright, Harry, either people know Jimmy Buffett or they don’t,” says Dearest Duck, puncturing my balloon — kinda.
Finally, here’s the shocking news from up in The States.
B’ys, get this, Jimmy Buffett — Jimmy Buffett mind you! — is opening a chain of retirement homes, Margaritavilles where old folks can waste away. Well, for frig sake!
Go mix some margaritas. Get wasted. Thank you for reading.