The need for speed
Well, that’s that then.
I have attended the last appointment in a long string of appointments that disappear over the horizon behind me.
Most of them have been with the opticians or the ophthalmologists but there were a couple of others thrown in for good luck. Today was just a quickie – to collect my latest spectacles with latest lenses. They’re actually very similar to my last lot but what the hell. At least I can see what I’m typing now without squinting.
My next appointment isn’t until December so I can enjoy the summer in peace. Normally it would be in three months time but they are so happy with my progress and with my assurances that I am applying eye-drops every night that they said the end of the year was fine. They ascribed my recovery as a living testament to their eye-drops. I didn’t bother telling them I was lying – I haven’t used the drops in months as they sting like fuck.
One of the really big things I love about retirement is the lack of any rigid routine. I have come to dislike appointments of any kind as they are an intrusion into my carefree and sloppy regard for time or place. I don’t mind meeting people in the coffee shop [if I still have a coffee shop to meet in] but anything that requires an entry in my calendar is an intrusion into a life of spontaneity and lack of purpose.
So with my last appointment behind me I celebrated by playing one of my favourite games on the way home – Speed Limits.
Speed Limits is a great game. It should only be played on narrow country roads with loads of humps and bends. It’s a very simple game – just see how far you can drive without dropping below the speed limit. Major bonus points if you can make it to the next change in limit without hitting anyone or crashing. Great craic. It requires a good nerve, rapid reflexes, tyres that aren’t too bald and good eyesight.
At least I have the eyesight bit now.
From my own experience on narrow country roads, a knowledge of the local milking times is essential when contemplating speed.
To come round a corner and find yourself gliding on a slick of cow shit towards the backsides of the shit donors is not funny. I remember the wide, wide eyes of the herds boy as I came to a stop feet from the rearmost rear.
A lesson on basic physics, Mrs Newton's wee boy's first Law, and friction, zero, of cow shit and I made sure never to repeat the experience.
As for sheep? A sheep will watch you approach and when you are ten feet (do your own metric conversion) from the beast it will decide that the other side of the road is irresistable and step out.
Cattle and sheep aren't a problem. Here it's the deer. Many times I have had to slam on the breaks because a deer has shot out in front of me. Once I even had a stand-off with a stag who reckoned I was a male competitor.
And of course, you have the meds right.
Not being tied to times is a great benefit of retirement. Except my daughter, woken up early every day by small grandchildren, suggests visit at 10am! Before breakfast!
The hardest place to play would be on the boreens. You turn off a wide major road which may have a speed limit of 60 km/h onto a track where the limit is 80km/h.
You have obviously driven the back roads of West Cork? An 80Km limit and grass down the middle of the road.