One sees all types at our club, unlike what most people think. We are perceived as old and fusty, which is not the case. Where on earth would one come across the likes of Mrs. Hynde-Quarters or the Brigadier?
While mad as the March Hare and in some circles old, fusty they are not. At the club's sports day last year, both of them acquitted themselves handsomely in the egg-and-spoon race, finishing in a dead heat well ahead of the rest of the field. Mrs. Hynde-Quarters then pinned the old soldier to the ground with a deft takedown, claiming the medal for herself.
There is, of course, the blind admiral who walks off piers shouting about the state of our overweight Navy. Also Colonel de Coopers with his best friend William the Weasel and our leader of all things spiritual, the Reverend "Mumbles" Te Deum. All in all, a fine bunch of fellow mems.
One chap is of interest because he runs a number of Vancouver Island "retirement homes." George Invoice owns the iconic Final Sunset Company, or as we at the Home of Homes call it, "the Dumping Ground."
He usually sits quietly at the reading room desk making plans for institutions right across Canada, so I was somewhat surprised when he threw himself into the adjoining chair by the bay window the other day. His cheeks were puffed out in anguish, so I put my paper down. This looked serious. I waved at the pregnant waitress to renew my yawning martini glass.
After licking his entire lip structure he leaned closer. He had something to say that was entirely "entre nous," if I knew what he meant. I nodded and gave him what I consider a confidential smile, finished off with my well-regarded "friendly" blink. Nothing. He looked at me and I at him and there it stood. Still nothing.
Finally, and I don't mean that lightly, for I was now beginning my third martini, he blurted out "senior intimacy," and fell back into the depths of the comfy club chair. I drained my glass, bug-eyed.
He said he had always run quiet pastures for tired retired people who looked for the slumbering side of life, or what was left of it.
Now that pharmaceutically excited male seniors are having congress willy-nilly in every slow-moving elevator, however, his tried-andtrue business plan is in jeopardy.
It seems this ghastly attitude has also spread alarmingly through the hallways and amongst the females. Of course demographics being what they are, there are not many ambulatory men around at the best of times, and those who are tend to huddle together like nervous geldings. But with "thickeners," as one spry widow called them, available at every drugstore, the game was afoot.
Invoice's problems become worse at night, with seniors in crepe soles creeping about the hallways in search of trysts after the 9 p.m. curfew. It was clear that it would be difficult to keep trusted and sensitive staff, who were subjected to sights only previously imagined in nightmares, plus the "prisoners" were becoming unaccountably healthy and therefore the turnover has slowed, raising an eyebrow in accounting.
I tried without success to stifle a smile accompanying a giggle, which brought a harsh "Eh?" from the tortured owner. This was why many mems come to me for nurturing. I pointed out that he had a wonderful opportunity with a "Fountain of Youth" concept, and he could well be turning away hundreds looking for renewal before long. To look at it as a new business plan, and therefore planned, could mean millions to his company.
During a long pause, one could see the struggle playing out upon his retreating forehead as his caterpillarlike eyebrows swam amongst the many wrinkles in a dance of nervous excitement. Suddenly he shouted that drinks were on him.
I had done it again. Sigh.
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