That bit in Secret Garden where Colin says tremulously of the garden, “will I live to see it? Will I live to get into it?” and Mary is very impatient and down to earth and the moment passes. I now feel as Colin did, but about something which, for most of my life, felt as distant as the Milky Way. We’re all getting older, but now I’m getting a bit cynical about “age is a state of mind” and “you can’t stop getting older, you don’t have to get old” and “I’m not getting older, I’m getting better.” Fact is my warranty is running out and you just can’t get the parts any more. There are the first crackles and creaks and my vision is occasionally blurring just a little and my middle toe on my left foot aches on cold mornings (I blame the horse that stood on it more years ago than seems actually possible) and sometimes when I carry something heavy my hands don’t uncurl instantly when I put it down. I had a glorious wonderful Indian summer and I wish the same on everyone AND it lasted nearly 10 years, but autumn itself is slowly but inevitably drawing to an end, and winter is approaching. There is, though, that one tiny twinkling star hanging in that late autumn sky. Will I live to see it? Will I live to get into it?
My state pension . . .
In months, in less than a year, my seventeen years of working in the UK and another five years of contributions will pay out in glittering cascades of gold for the rest of my life. Will I live to see it? Will I live long enough to become a jubilada?
I bloody better.
Oh, the only point to this blog for you, gentle reader, is to stuff every penny you can do without into a pension plan. If this blasted pandemic did nothing else it taught us that you can’t always assume your own efforts will be enough because you may not be allowed to make your own efforts. Such a huge relief that something you never thought twice about is sailing in to the rescue – if you live long enough –
If you already did, excellent!