Seeking a Bettamorphosis
Entry posted by caldrail
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You know it's a funny thing. Women always say that middle aged men are weighed down with emotional baggage and you know what? We are.
The reason is partly biological. Us blokes go off the boil a little and get steadily lukewarm as we realise out fragile bodies aren't coping with the demands we desperately want them to. Instead, we have to claim we're getting steadily cooler but you just know you're not convincing anyone. It's getting harder to keep hold of the harem. The aggressive young males are circling. The females aren't impressed any more.
The second reason is cultural. For a long time now British managers have increasingly concentrated on image, one of the least useful american imports to our country. Even as old as I am, employers have for many years tried to treat me as a malleable teenager and force me to become something that I'm clearly not and seriously haven't any understanding of.
Conformity is declared to be good for business. Yet it never actually makes any difference. It's simply a means by which a boss enforces his control over his minions by expecting them to wear the right shirts, display the right badge on the bonnet, and say all the buzzwords that make your line manager go all gooey in your presence. It is, to all intents and purposes, a mild form of slavery, and we declared that illegal in 1833.
It struck me last night how hopeless my situation seems. Now I'm over forty and thus too old to be useful in the workplace, finding a job has become an exercise in endurance, not to mention morale. Britain is wobbling at the knees and jobs are vanishing fast. Job Centers have told the government they can't cope with the ever increasing numbers of highly skilled ex-employees on their books. There's talk of a major motor manufacturer closing a factory in a few days time if no government assistance is forthcoming, and that could just as easily be Swindon as Sunderland or Cowley.
It doesn't look good does it? I'm getting older, poorer, balder, bogged down, and ever more solitary as people realise I can't afford to socialise. My horizons have shrunk to the point where the edge of the world is now down the road. Heck, this world can be a cruel place. What happened to that determined young man defying all reason and going on the road with rock bands, driving fast cars, flying aeroplanes, wandering around the wilderness of foreign countries? I look around my home and wonder if I'll be sat on a park bench in five years time.
No, I won't succumb to depression or cheap flights to Thailand. Watch out world , here comes Caldrail.... Again. Sigh. I'm slowly turning into Grampa Simpson. Well at least I've had a few years practise...
False Alarm of the Week
This poverty is a pain in the backside. So I've decided to get rich quick, and that means a march up the hill to the newsagent to by a lotto ticket. Six numbers is all it takes and I can finally afford my tax bill (at least until Gordon Brown realises I've won money). Later that night, staring slack-jawed at another mindless BBC gameshow they hide the Lotto draw within, I pick up my ticket to unbounded wealth. Come on come on... Oh someone stop that second rate gameshow host...
For some reason the fact they were using 'Guinevere', one of the Lotto selection machines, wasn't hugely significant to me. I don't care about this rubbish. Just tell me the nummbers for crying out loud. God they like smiling. Aha! First number...Yes! Brill, but don't get cocky Caldrail... Second number... Yes! A cold sweat starts to form... Third number.... NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Sigh. Now I'm left with Mrs Smith standing confused in front of a TV camera searching her vacant brain for the multiple choice answer that will land her the star prize. I know how she feels. The gameshow host would confuse me. Must... reach... tv...remote... starting to enjoy... gameshow....
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