Thread: Act Your Age.

ACT YOUR AGE:
PART 1: SENIOR CITIZEN.


When Albert Higgs won the lottery, he decided to do nothing about it for a year. He’d read all about those winners, whose lives had changed for the worst. Random individuals who had lost their real friends and gained only superficial fair weather ones, and how a numerical chance of fate had resulted in lucky claimants being buried under the onslaught of scavengers that exist in the underworld existence of professional begging letter writers and investment consultant experts.

So when Albert opened that white recorded delivery letter back last summer and found that he had won 67 million pounds sterling, and had, almost as an off-hand gesture to the Gods, ticked the anonymity box, he was quietly chuffed.

He was a likable old cove; a senior citizen in fact, living in a small council flat up in a Hertfordshire town north of London and he had lost his wife five years ago. He got by on his pension, walked to the shops every second day, and like many old people in Britain kept himself to himself. So for a year basically, his life to all outward appearances did not change. Apart that is, from the secret knowledge that lay inside him and the Lloyds bank teller whose eyeballs widened perceptibly every time she checked his account when he drew out cash to pay for food or to settle bills. Actually, there was one occasion, when the bank manager, suitably tipped off by the aforesaid cashier ambushed him gently while he was leaving, and enquired if he would like advice on more remunerative options open to him on his funds.

“Nope” said Albert, “Leave it all in the current account and I don’t need none of those fancy plastic cards either.”

But a year had passed and Albert had pondered and reflected and then reflected more.

“I’m 68 years old now” he thought. “A few more and I might be going downhill fast. No real family to think of, apart from that greedy sod of a brother of mine who never contacts me. Might as well splash a bit out while I’ve still got body and soul together.”

So he considered his options.

“New house? Not really. I’m settled, and too many memories of the wife about this place.”

“Expensive holiday? Not much fun on my own, but then I suppose I could get a young bit of stuff to keep my bones warm in the winter? No, not a good idea either. She would tire me out with all her sexual demands and an old bird would just want to boss me about and take all my money. Lets face it; I’m not going to get another Doris.”

The reality had dawned. Real money could not guarantee him anything of substance, or ensure that which had real meaning.

“So what can I really treat myself to?” he pondered.

Then he remembered his dear old Dad getting a Ford Consul back in the 50s when he was a boy. “God, how Dad loved that car! But then, what with the fuel and tax, insurance, MOT, and servicing, he had given it up as beyond his means.”

“What you reckon Dad? Shall I go for it? Get a real car and dream the dream you aspired to, but were obliged to lose?”