As soon as you retire from your nine-to-five job, people say: “How do you fill your day?”
Actually, it’s easy. Personally, I’m flat out. Let me add up the minutes.
Walking up in the middle of the night and debating with yourself about whether you need to heave yourself out of bed to visit the loo: 20 minutes.
Finally, inevitably, making the trip to the loo: 2 minutes.
Getting back to sleep: 50 minutes.
Waking up in the morning, slightly exhausted: 1 minute.
Putting on your socks: 2 minutes.
Putting on your reading glasses: first, I’ve got to find them.
Sitting down on a chair: 2 seconds.
Getting up again: 15 seconds.
Doing the Friday crossword: 53 minutes.
Complaining to your partner about “that bastard David Astle” and his diabolical crossword clues: 63 minutes.
Conducting your daily exercise routine: 20 minutes.
Having coffee and cake since you deserve a reward for having conducted your daily exercise routine: 90 minutes.
Admiring a flowering plant on your daily walk and realising, miraculously, you suddenly know its name: 5 minutes.
Admiring a bird on your daily walk and realising, miraculously, you suddenly know its name: 5 minutes.
Having the time and mental space to take up the $1 introductory offer for the TV streaming service: 10 minutes.
Having the time and mental space to cancel the $1 introductory offer from a different streaming service, a moment before they were about to start charging the full rate: 10 minutes.
Laughing maniacally over this triumphant example of sticking it to The Man: 90 minutes.
Becoming so obsessed with your family heritage that you do a DNA test, certain that you are probably a quarter Icelandic or Guatemalan or certainly a member of some sort of royal family: 40 minutes.
Drowning your sorrows having discovered your genetic heritage involves nothing more exotic than both sides of some UK slum: 60 minutes.
Checking the price of your second tranche Telstra shares in the eternal hope that one day they’ll come good: 1 minute.
Drowning your sorrows having realised they’ll never come good: 60 minutes.
Having the time, finally, to join a campaign to save the koalas, or better-fund public education, or to support the use of “youse” as a genuinely useful contribution to the language (other passions are available): 16 hours.
Dogs, grandchildren, friends, cooking, art or golf (pick one, or several, but preferably not golf): 16 hours.
I may need to go back to nine-to-five employment just to free up spare time.
Sitting in mute disbelief when viewing a gum tree, its branches reaching into the sky, thirsty and yearning, dark against the early evening sky: 20 minutes.
Falling into a reverie about how you won life’s lottery by getting to live in Australia: 40 minutes.
Finding a way to improve the spaghetti bolognese meal you’ve made for 50 years, simply by adding a splash of Worcestershire sauce: 2 minutes.
Wondering why you didn’t realise the power of Worcestershire sauce when you first made spaghetti Bolognaise 50 years ago: 2 minutes.
Concluding that it’s good that some of life’s treats and revelations are left until later in life: 60 minutes.
Calculating your daily savings after using your seniors Opal seniors card for a trip into town, followed by a visit to the supermarket and then a night out: 2 minutes.
Laughing maniacally with delight that you are finally getting something from the government: 60 minutes.
Reverse parking your car: 10 minutes.
Having a psychological breakdown about why you can no longer reverse park with ease, when you used to be able to do it blindfolded, wearing sunnies, and with one arm around an attractive friend: 2 minutes.
Reading the classic book you’ve been meaning to read for the past 40 years: 10 minutes.
Deciding to stop reading the classic book on account that it’s a bit boring: 30 seconds.
Daydreaming about doing that driving trip around Australia: 40 minutes.
Calculating the terrifying cost of that driving trip around Australia, given the current cost of fuel: 2 minutes.
Deciding, instead, to start watching an Australian travelogue series on television: 3 hours.
Getting undressed, ready for bed: 2 minutes.
Popping on your pyjamas: first, I’ve got to find them.
Waking up in the middle of the night and debating with yourself about whether you need to heave yourself out of bed in order to visit the loo: 20 minutes.
Finally, inevitably, making the trip to the loo: 2 minutes.
Waking up in the morning, slightly exhausted: 1 minute.
Add it all up, and I’d need a month for every passing day. Like everyone else who has retired, I may need to go back to nine-to-five employment just to free up a bit of spare time.
