Tag Archives: retirement

For Better or Worse

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                Change is inevitable; that much is a given. In industry and in any establishment ‘change’ is an issue that must be managed, trained for, discussed, prepared for and implemented. Why must all this effort go into dealing with change? Because most of us, the worker bees, the minions, the ignorant-we won’t like it. And we won’t like it because it won’t be in our interests. It will be in the interests of those making the change; they may be bosses, government ministers, directors or anyone who might benefit from alterations.

                One change that hit the national headline news this week was the move, after 40 years, of Ford’s van factory from Southampton, here on the South coast of England, to Turkey. The reason given is lower cost. I’m guessing this means lower wages. Of course the move is great news for Turkey, who, I believe is still aiming to belong to the European Union, having begun negotiations in 2005, but less good for those workers who had believed, not expecting anything to change, that their jobs were there until retirement. No doubt Ford’s will also have less in the way of employment regulations to follow-that is-if and when Turkey gets its membership in Europe.

                As the stirrings of unrest boil away under the surface in Turkey, I’ll be interested to see how Ford’s venture of moving there progresses. The turkey may come home to roost, as it were.

                Closer to home, the shockwaves are still settling after our little writing club was sacked from the ‘community’ arts centre where we always met. As a non profit-making club, apparently we do not generate enough revenue; hence we are no longer welcome. For now we will meet in our homes until such time as we find another venue. We have to adapt to the change.

                It may be unfashionable to adhere to the ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t mend it’ mantra, but all change is not necessarily going to be better for all people. In my previous life as a real working person [ie one who earned a salary] I was happy enough for things to be changed if the benefits were pointed out. Being of a somewhat cynical nature, however, I tended towards the view that there is nothing new under the sun, therefore a proposed change would be a system or a scheme or an idea that we had implemented before under a different name and in a different guise. And here’s the thing-often more than once. On the occasions when, in my innocence, I was rash enough to point this out, the outcome was never happy, or indeed favourable. I became a sort of cynical ‘Mr Pooter’  figure, labelled as an idiotic buffoon-or worse.

                Nowadays for me, change is gradual and unavoidable, although strangely, not always altogether unwelcome, without authority to rail against. Who is there to blame for wrinkles, unwanted weight deposits or grey hair? It’s all in the scheme of things, just as it should be.

                

Keep up! A parable for the third age.

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                When I was in my early thirties and my youngest child was two I got a terrible shock. I was coming down the stairs one day and caught sight of a frumpy, fat, grey woman in a shapeless, elasticated-waist skirt I did not recognise. Who was it? It was me. For once I’d looked up into a mirror attached to the wall just where the stairs ended-the first look at myself full length for some time. I’d been preoccupied with matters of childcare-to the extent that I’d quite lost any sense of myself at all.

                Overall, that shock was a good thing. I was never a sporty type. I was born into a sedentary family. My parents invented the potato couch. My mother’s preferred activity was to sit in front of the TV and knit-preferably next to a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. My two brothers did not pursue any type of sport, or display any interest in sports activities. Aside from gardening, my father was alone among us in enjoying watching cricket. That was it.

                Despite this we were not fat children, and we played outside in all weathers as well as eating a somewhat conservative, but healthy diet.

                So having been jolted into undertaking an uncomfortable appraisal of my state, I took myself to an exercise class in a local church hall. This was the eighties; an era of leotards, tights and leg-warmers, an ensemble that most of my fellow exercisers had taken to with gusto and in a plethora of pastel colours [predominantly pink]. Swathed in a camouflage of baggy, jersey jogging pants [that had seen action as decorating and gardening gear] and shapeless tee shirt, I cringed somewhere near the back with little hope of blending in.

                But I loved it. I loved the cheesy music and the chance to almost dance, and I loved the way I felt afterwards, tired, aching and jubilant. I loved meeting my fellow aerobic-ers and being part of the shared ethic. Soon I progressed to a proper gym and even acquired some acceptable and appropriate clothing [not pink and not leg warmers]. Over time my shape became more conventional, but best of all I felt fit. I started running a bit-only half a mile at first, but slowly building up until I could do about 5 miles without too much discomfort.

                I probably reached a ‘peak’ of fitness [for me] at around 40-45. After that the joints began to complain, I slowed and had to start modifying what I did. I went to the GP with a condition called plantar fasciitis, which is an inflammation of the membranes under your feet. The doctor asked me why I couldn’t just go for a nice walk. It was a growing trend, he said, for the middle aged to present themselves with exercise-related injuries.

                Nowadays, being as fond of dance exercise as ever, I’ve taken to the ever popular Zumba, coupled with, as my doctor suggested, a good deal of walking [with a bit of cycling thrown in during nice weather]. During the day the gym is packed full of sprightly ladies [and a few gents] of more mature years all strutting their stuff. It is a wonderful and uplifting sight. I just wonder what my mother would make of it all if she were around and were to look up from her knitting and to see it!

Any Openings?

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Life is arranged all wrong. You can blame God, if you’re so inclined [I’m not]. The first nine or ten years or so are alright. You get born. You are looked after [hopefully] while you are helpless. You might even be doted on. You may be fortunate enough to learn some useful stuff that will prepare you for adulthood, like walking, talking-even reading. Then it goes pear-shaped. Just when you are thirsting for knowledge, eager, full of enthusiasm, you lose it; snuffed out like a candle. Because as adolescence, teens and hormonal tempests begin to boil up, an interest in medieval history, Pythagoras theorem, netball practise, past participles and piano lessons flies totally out of the patio doors to be replaced by a fascination for one thing only.

         Unfortunately this is the time when you begin to be tested on your skills, ability and knowledge in order to prepare you for independence, the severance of the umbilical, the supporting of yourself. Striving to achieve academic goals becomes torture. Many of us [I include myself] acquire a disappointing, average, just-about-satisfactory set of results that equips us for some kind of career or job. Many of us don’t. A few manage to transcend their base instincts and shine-a source of pride for their parents [see previous post-‘It’s not that we’re not interested, but…’].

         You then embark upon whatever source of living your qualifications have led you to, because by now, in adulthood, you are on your own. Perhaps you will fall madly in love with your chosen occupation, perhaps not. Maybe you will find success beyond your wildest dreams; maybe you will rub along, earning enough of a crust.

         Other bits of life crowd in, like partners, children, housing, transport, holidays. These demands mean that swapping what you do for any other occupation becomes impossible.

         Then before you know it, the years you’ve spent earning enough to live have somehow vanished in a vaporous puff and you are free! Hooray! You are without obligations, dependents and if you are a little bit lucky, without too much financial pressure. You find you are interested in everything. You want to be a student of history, to learn about exotic places, find out how the universe was made. You want to run marathons, become a piano maestro or Australia’s next top model, win the Nobel prize, ‘The Apprentice’ and ‘Masterchef’ and get knighted.

         But wait; just as these lofty aspirations buzz into your excited, eager, animated little bonse the bell is called for ‘time’. The doors begin to close. Those violin, mandarin or judo lessons, that  symphony you were going to compose, the Michelin-starred restaurant you always meant to open-they should all have been started years ago…when you were young, when your mind was…elsewhere.

         But hang on-not all options are finished. What about becoming pope? There is clearly no age barrier there. There may be some slight opposition in terms of gender, of course [for me], but… nothing ventured…Oh, old Argy Frank has beaten me to it. There’s always next time. Perhaps there is a God, after all?

 

Who wants to go Dutch?

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                There are joys too numerous to count about being retired. I know that for many, financial demands mean that they must continue to work, and that yes, we were lucky to be able to stop slogging and take our public sector pensions, but I’ve never felt, as some do, that I needed to work for my own wellbeing. On the contrary it is only now, without the constraints of daily routine, that I can do the things I like.

                Some, of course are obvious. I only ever had a chance to read novels when on holiday and now I am able to sit down and read a book when I choose. I read a lot. I can spend vast amounts of time nurturing the garden, weather permitting, and even grow things to eat! I can go out for a walk-on a weekday-during the daytime. I can go to the gym-in the daytime. I can have coffee with friends, or a meal, during the day, or spend an afternoon perusing the shops [not necessarily purchasing anything]. When the weather improves we tootle off in our small camper van for unspecified periods of time.

Some activities I’ve come to hate less, however, are a little unexpected. There are a number of chores that I used to find sheer drudgery when I went out to work. Cleaning was one; so much so that we resorted to getting someone else to do it [and a lovely job she made of it, too]. We’d been spending every weekend hoovering, polishing, mopping etc, leaving no time for anything else [like reading a book]. Nowadays I regard cleaning the house as satisfying, relaxing and good exercise [and I can listen to excellent Radio 4 at the same time!].

Cooking is another task I’ve warmed to, and one which has benefited from the extra time and effort put in. Even the food shopping is not unpleasant. I feel soothed by hanging up washing on the clothes line outside, folding it and putting it away or ironing things. I’m not unhappy to stand at the kitchen sink washing up.

                What all this says to me, is that the more ‘work’ is created to fill up the hours, the more people will cut corners by buying convenience meals and using expensive appliances. I have a conviction, based on my own working years that a lot of ‘work’ [especially administration-type tasks] is not only unnecessary but deliberately handed out for the sake of appearances. I wonder if it is really necessary for workers to spend all lunchtimes at their desks and keep later and later hours? Years ago shops closed for lunch, had half days on Wednesdays and weren’t open on Sundays. No one starved or went without anything because of it. I’d have thought the current economic squeeze would be the ideal time to get back to shorter working hours, proper weekends etc.

                The Netherlands, who have some of the shortest working weeks in the world, have made wholesale moves into the 4-day week. Employees, for the most part may choose to work longer for 4 days and take an extra day off! Wonderful! A whole day to catch up on chores, or spend time with children, or cook things, or exercise, pursue a hobby…or even sleep! How much more rested, rounded and motivated everyone would be!

What not to do with your GUKAPs

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Not insignificant amongst recent events in our household has been the return of an adult offspring to reside with us. During the intervening ten years that has been child free we have, as one does, fallen into what we had considered to be our default, retirement, do-as-we-wish lifestyle, involving eating when and what we like, coming and going when we please, becoming pernickety about some habits and lackadaisical about others and considering that we have despatched our duty towards our progeny. In other words we have been gradually evolving into ancient, dotty creatures like our parents used to be.

                Now we’ve all had to make adjustments, and although I must add that this is not the first time it has happened, or even with the same child, I find I am regressing to a former self; one who was a parent, with all the accompanying, irritating, overbearing, suffocating tendencies that such a role carries.

                I say, ‘You can’t be warm enough like that’, or ‘Aren’t you going to eat before you go out?’, or ‘How are you getting home?’ or ‘Oh dear’. Being aware of this foible and its annoyance factor does nothing to prevent these pseudo-maternal utterances. They are out of my mouth before you can say ‘empty nest’, just as if I’m running on an automatic mummy circuit.

                All this would be much more understandable if I’d been a natural, a homely ‘earth mother’ type when they were small. But motherly I was not. Oh, I loved them of course! But I’d been unprepared for the relentless clamour that babies and toddlers create; unaware that no minute of any day belonged to me, not to sit down and have a coffee, read a newspaper, browse in a shop, weed a garden border, have a bath or even to sit on a lavatory alone and uninterrupted.

                Looking after babies and toddlers can be fun and rewarding. They are sweet and funny. It can also be exhausting, frustrating, lonely and boring. They demand all your time. They are messy and not always happy. I took a number of years off to tend to mine. I enjoyed seeing them grow and develop, but the loss of salary led to a Spartan quality of life. Whilst there were probably benefits to my being their sole carer I don’t think they’d have been worse off if I’d worked part-time.

                Quality child care is essential to families these days. I fail to see how anyone is going to be able to look after 6 toddlers on their own. Two was hard enough for me [and they were my own children!]. Where is the connection between a less advantageous ratio of child to adult and it costing less? Or staff getting paid more? It is a demanding and a skilled job and the people doing it should receive the pay and status they deserve without compromising their conditions.

                And as for grown up children? I shall probably continue in my bumbling attempts to be a mother until I croak. Do we have a term for them, an acronym [like SKIers or DINKies?]? Some call them Boomerang kids, but I thought GUKAPs might do. [Grown Up Kids At Parents].