The Diary of a Retiree

The age of retirement might well be sixty five,

But I don’t believe in basing it on how long you’ve been alive.

So when people leave work early, there’s no need for complaining,

As they’re basing their retirement on the years they have remaining.

In the case of my dad, although he’s only fifty six,

He’s done his fair share of working since he grew up in the sticks.

So I’ll take you back to fifty five and the town of Edendork,

Where my dad was dropped from quite a height by the baby making stork.

But in Tyrone when you have a fall, no one makes a fuss,

Which might be why, a few years on he failed the eleven plus.

At some point in the next few years, he engaged his meagre brain,

And somehow got himself a place at college in Coleraine.

Where he got up to this and that, and between one thing and the other,

He came out the other end tightly wed-locked with my mother.

They moved themselves to Antrim, and on a cold night in November,

They made arrangements to extend themselves by one more family member.

Six years on, another move, and another child arrives,

And for eighteen years at least this is how they’d spend their lives.

All the while he plied his trade, round west Belfast and more,

The children there were social worked like they never were before.

As he worked on the streets he worked his way up the ranks,

All the while piling money into several different banks,

After all those years of saving, he unveiled his masterplan,

I couldn’t quite believe he went and bought a caravan.

He got through that awkward phase and reacquainted with his senses,

And after some consideration and reshuffling of expenses,

They bought a house in Donegal where they’d settle for a while,

Far from death threats in Portstewart from a dangerous paedophile.

Before I go much further I’ll indulge in some digression,

For there’s more to Mr. Toner than caravans and career progression.

From the long list of his talents, I have time for just a few,

If he’s not the worlds best mumbler, he’s certainly number two.

He’s got a very special talent for illegible handwriting,

And his culinary efforts are nothing if not exciting.

As for looks, well God gaveth and he tooketh away,

He lost the moustache, but went gradually grey.

He’s recently got into this cycling and walking,

He’s hopefully better at these than at talking.

To get back to the point, it’s two thousand and five,

And my dad’s got like fifteen years left alive.

Twelve hours a day is too much for a man,

So we urged him to make a retirement plan.

We all knew at the time if he didn’t slow down,

He was hurtling towards a big hole in the ground.

Flash forward to the present day, and he’s about to pack it in,

And we’ll look on patronisingly, as his twilight years begin.

So to sum up:

He was born, he fell, he failed, he passed, he went on to meet my mother,

He studied, he left, he worked, he moved, he had me, then he had another,

And he worked and worked and worked and this work was all quite hardening,

Which will stand him in good stead, in his new career in gardening.