Sue and I had a sneaky day trip down the south coast away from work recently — she’s a dreadful influence on me.
We ate breakfast in Brighton Le Sands, watched the planes landing and taking off and caught up on the kids, boyfriends (hers, I’m still looking) and work.
We walked across the road to get back in the car. I thought about our old work in Melbourne and what she was working on at the moment.
“You know, you should open up some gay retirement villages.” I stuck the key into the door and opened it for her.
“Just not with saunas or hot tubs,” we cackled. “And only hot orderlies.”
“Can you imagine, seriously. There are so many people who would prefer to be looked after in a gay-friendly village.”
I started picturing Zimmer frames and disco balls in the community room.
We drove over the escarpment and through valleys of green bordered by frothy foamy beaches.
I wondered what will come of our elderly, what will become of me, when I get to that age. Will an adult Chicky want to make me Vegemite soldiers? Will Beau creep home at some ungodly hour, forgetting he left me in the bath?
Do I want a stern straight woman or man who doesn’t understand me or my people or do I want José from True Blood as my chamber man? Si señor!
Sure, I’m being stereotypical about the whole chasing José around the hospital-cornered beds, but I guess it’s something that will start to influence the next wave for businesses to invest in. There is a market for it.
I have some older friends who I think will live out the remainder of their days in solitude, visited by stray cats, young visitors who forget to keep in touch and long walks around Betty Bay.
I want a Disney experience when I hit the pastures. I want spinning teacups, handsome and friendly faces to lower me into a bath and when I reach to switch the light out, I want to be able to lean over and give my partner a peck on the lips and sleep curled up right next to him.