Choosing a whiter shade of egg-shell beige

NO matter who you are, where you are, or how old you are, you’re going to have problems.You could be the King of England, but you’re married to Camilla and your ginger child is acting like an American brat.

You could be a supermodel, but you’re married to Donald Trump who is a man-child acting like an American brat.

You could be sitting at home and a Nigerian prince contacts you to say you’ve won the jackpot, and you’d find a problem with that.

There are endless reality television shows featuring the world’s richest celebrities made famous for doing absolutely nothing besides being born to some ageing rocker, and yet all they do is whine about their problems.

I bet, if you had to sit down with Mother Theresa and a bottle of wine, she would probably complain that her headgear was a bit tight and her Nobel Prize was a bit heavy.

My youngest son, who lives a life only written about in fairytales – and not those German, child-eating witch fairytales – happy ones with bunnies dressing you alongside rivers made of chocolate, still finds a problem daily.

His Xbox has too many games… his Lego is too colourful… his mother accidentally put wine in his water bottle again.

There is just no end to the trials and tribulations of these privileged individuals.

Even Jay Z had 99 problems, but Beyonce was not one. Until he had that fight with Beyonce’s sister in the elevator and she was one. So then he had 100 problems.

But one doesn’t know real problems until one delves into the murky world of elite retirement villages in South Africa.

Although these problems undoubtedly span continents, with grannies in Calcutta likely concerned about similar, if not more pressing, issues.

This is a world that I have been exposed to as my in-laws reside in one such retirement village.

Actually, it’s a retirement village within a gated eco-estate. Sort of a village within a village within a forest.

Having dealt with toddlers in my life, I thought I had come across every petty problem in existence – the bread is cut wrong, the bowl is the wrong colour, you put wine in my baby bottle again.

But these are nothing compared to the problems in retired life. Remember, we’re dealing with people who have a lot of time on their hands, a lot of pent-up moaning to do, and children who’ve fled the country.

The first transgression is picking a flower. This is deemed one of the biggest mortal sins one can commit.

If they could send Moses back up that mountain with his chisel, he’d be adding Thou Shalt Not Pick a Flower in an Eco-Estate to the commandments.

It’s an offence punishable by death. Or by a small fine and constant bickering on the WhatsApp group, which is a fate worse than death.

The second transgression is attempting to add a non-indigenous plant to your garden. If you’re going to do that in an eco-estate, you might as well make it an oak tree and then hang yourself from it.

It’s a lot less painful than dealing with the Tribunal of the Aged.

Ironically, some guy bought a house which he used solely as storage for his drug dealing operation. Nobody had a problem with this.

Why? Because he was quiet and left the indigenous plants well enough alone (his was a heroin operation, not marijuana which is considered a dangerous weed, although only when planted).

However, nothing has caused more anxiety than the Paint Decision Debacle of 2024.

The homes needed re-painting, and in a moment of insanity that will follow him to his grave (probably quite soon), the Chief of the Tribunal decided to open the paint choices to the floor, democracy style.

Problem is, you can’t rule a bunch of dictators with democratic means.

Much like the residents, the colours on offer were semi-light beige, light beige, lighter beige, and egg-shell white (slightly different to the Calcutta choices).

The samples were painted on the store room so that everyone could assess them from every angle at all times of the day before casting their vote. The votes came in – it was the dreaded even four-way split.

If you mixed up the colours or even replaced them with four equally bland colours, not one of these partially-sighted geriatrics would know the difference.

However, they had to call in a team of independent colour experts headed by a retired judge, with the final decision handed down by the Constitutional Court.

In the end, they decided to just stick with the original colour – beige.