Once again, the brains of the club (the home of homes) have batted about the problems of the world through the long week. The shuttlecock of worries sailed about the rafters like a confused meteorite kept aloft by the finely tuned grey matter far below.

For instance, the onearmed colonel felt that not enough lonely seniors realized the place to "meet same" was the incontinence aisle at the local pharmacy.

Since his wife had passed from this Vale of Tears, the colonel had had a great deal of difficulty finding suitable companionship, as the women of this club treat him as no more than a fool, so there is no hope there.

However, he felt to meet one's opposite in that aisle answers a certain number of awkward questions and avoids odd looks before the festivities even begin. Most of us within hearing distance of the old colonel stared hard at our shoes.

One of the other topics this week was the end, our end. This is a subject fraught with bitterness amongst the mems, as we know that our grinning relatives do not really mean it when they say, "And how are you feeling, Daddy?" It is more like "When?"

I do understand that we are just in the way as far as the younger generation goes, for we were perhaps guilty of the same when younger, but that does not make it any gentler on us. We will go when we are damned ready and not before, I say, so do not make us angry or there could be monetary consequences. Ha!

All this mental pabulum pushed the conversation in the direction of what we would be doing when we drop from our perch: Would we go gracefully or fight like stink, requesting a recount?

Many of us cast our minds back to memories of fellow mems and how they approached the abyss. One chap we recalled stood up, finished his gin and T and said, "Watch this." He then did a two-minute version of St.Vitus's dance before hitting the memorial carpet face-down. I think that was followed by applause, which some of us thought inappropriate at the time, but perhaps we were wrong. One mem shouted after the soup (pea) at lunch, "I will be right up, Nana, put the kettle on!" Yet another ordered a final martini and then slid onto the floor singing God Save the Queen.

Some of us have been privy to unfortunate exits such as so-called deathbed confessions, where one is unburdened of civility and can finally tell the truth.

Most of these can be cruel and not at all entertaining, in fact very unsettling.

One general roared as he passed that his grandchildren were truly rotten and deserved a whipping of the first order. Another giggled that his wife had more body hair than a rhesus monkey, which led to a dead heat between his natural demise and near strangulation from his furious wife.

I and others nearby do not fear these kind of final moments for we do not have much to say or any dark secrets to spill, just good advice along the lines of the avoidance of cats and the great need in this uncharitable world to join a good club.

My wife of some 40 years, Kitty, and I discuss our exits more and more these days, not just because one horrible granddaughter keeps putting red dots on our furniture as some sort of ownership display for after we are gone, but more to remember how lucky we are to have made it this far.

I take comfort from others who have gone before me that they had had enough and wanted to be gone. We have never been bored, but if we become that way, that is the sign to make way for others and say goodbye gracefully.

majornigelsb@gmail.com