Now we're getting serious!

So, I've just turned 66 and I'm officially retired.

Everything is suddenly arse-about-face. I feel guilty because I'm not going to work. I still think to myself, "When I go back to work, I have to ... ", before realising I'm not and I don't have to! I almost said to Dearly Beloved one night when we were having a pre-dinner drink, "Remember this, because when you're back at work you'll look back on it" ... until it sank in. There IS no more work. I'm no longer employed. On my Immigration form under "Occupation" I can no longer write "Managing Editor"; it's suddenly "Retired".

Don't get me wrong ... I've been working for 49 years, and DB and I have made sure we're not going to be a burden on society financially. But there's still all this knowledge and experience inside me trying to find a way to get out. I will NOT sit around and vegetate exactly the way my father did when he retired!

What do we do, then? Well, we want to sell up and downsize, so there's a house to repaint and renovate and get ready for the market. (Did I mention I hate painting?)

And there's travel. Yes, as I've said, DB and I are addicted. Trouble is, of course, the income is no longer anywhere near what it used to be. Suddenly, I have to be a little more aware of "specials" and perhaps frills-free travel. But we'll still manage something.

Same with wine and scotch -- two of my favourites. Bit less quality, bit less volume and a whole lot less expense. Not happy about it, but reality is reality. (But don't expect to see me drinking Johnny Walker red any time soon!)

What would I like to do now? Ideally, pass on my love of language. I'd like to help people be more precise, more concise, more correct and more ... respectful of their language. So being a lecturer/facilitator on better writing, better English, more concise and precise English would be a dream realised. Or I'd just settle for volunteer work trying to pass on my love and respect for our language.

In the meantime, I'll sand and paint and scrape and fill and smooth ... and wish I was doing something else.

As for the bigger picture -- growing old with its inevitable physical and mental decline -- may I just say "Fuck it!"

I am reminded of this:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I'm not going anywhere gently!