I REMEMBER it like it was yesterday.
Those fabulous 21sts in shearing sheds and, occasionally, in some of those stately old bluestone mansions (when the parents were away mostly), an impromptu affair would be held.
Which, on more than one occasion, led to the disinheritance of the son who had opened the house to his feckless friends for the night.
And if you had caught me yesterday and asked about one of them, I would have said it was just 10 or 20 years ago.
Until you stop and take a look at the mate who mentioned it.
Bloody hell, he’s a septuagenarian.
“Mate,” I cried, “what’s happened to you? When did you suddenly get this old?”
In my mind I leapt off my seat to see if he needed a hand. In reality I couldn’t spare him a hand, I needed of both mine to push myself towards the vertical – then needed a moment or two to fully straighten my back, check my balance and then offer my commiserations.
“Bloody hell Whacker,” he said. “Don’t you have mirrors in your house?”
He was right. We don’t. I banned them after the barber suggested he might have to give me a discount due to the lack of hair.
So I snuck into the bedroom while the missus wasn’t looking – I know she keeps one in her dresser drawer – and had a look.
Egad!
That couldn’t be me, it looked like my grandfather.
I won’t say I started to fall apart, I didn’t have to. According to the mirror I already had.
I sagged onto the side of the bed trying to convince myself this couldn’t be happening.
But the more it went through my mind, the more so many other things started making sense.
For example, it may surprise you to know I am a little competitive, in the Whacker’s world coming second just means you are the first one last.
But suddenly I realised just how far I have sunk, without really noticing.
Such as the other day, when we were at the saleyards just shooting the breeze while we waited for the action to begin.
One bloke tried to convince us he had the world’s most gorgeous granddaughter – pulled out his phone and started waving around a picture of a singularly ordinary looking child. Particularly when compared with fruit of the Whacker’s loins.
I let him ramble on for a while and then calmly extracted the Whacker phone from my shirt pocket, pulled up my picture library the way the grandlings have showed me, and flashed a picture of the four-year-old princess, with her halo of golden curls, her grandfather’s blue eyes and a face so beautiful it melts your heart.
What the hell?
Is this what I have come to?
Like a lost soul at the local CWA meeting, next thing I would be discussing crochet or preserved fruit.
Bloody hell.
Bouncing back to my feet (after three goes) I lurched towards the door, finally steadied into a walk and then broke into a trot.
Getting out the back door I discovered my voice was still as good as it always was, and started shouting at anyone sitting around doing nothing.
“Come on you pack of useless mongrels, get on ya bloody feet and go and do some bloody work. Do I have to do everything? If I see one of you within a mile of the house in the next four hours I’ll personally boot you over the front gate, now bugger off!” I hollered.
“I might be out to see what you’re up to as soon as I’ve finished the ordering and checking the accounts.”
They took off in every direction and as soon as they were out of sight I headed back indoors, looked into the office, turned up the stairs and back into the bedroom, grabbed the mirror and flung it out the window, sagged back onto the bed, sighed, and lay down for a minute (which only lasted three hours).
I was back in the office by the time the first son was back for the day, shuffling paper and tapping keys on the computer.
“I picked up the mail too Whacker,” he said, tossing it on the desk.
I noticed a fancy big envelope addressed to me and the missus so I tore it open and it was an invitation to another old mate’s birthday.
His 80th birthday.
Just shoot me.
