You have to be careful who you moan at. There is no use telling fifty year olds that the weather went to pot in the sixties. They remember perfectly clearly the summers were warm and dry followed by crisp dry winters until the eighties. While they blame the Thatcher regime, we older folk know that the weather changed when decimal currency was introduced.
Anyway, I am fine at the moment but I have been giving a bit of thought to what I can do when I need help. I would have drifted into an old folks home if it had not been for the terrible things unnoticed by the authorities but clearly revealed by the BBC. Everywhere you look there are underpaid and poorly managed thugs just waiting the chance to practice skills popularised by the CIA.
People I talk to just shrug and ask what can you expect from Institutions. That got me thinking and I believe that I have found a possible solution. The best of the institutions in this country are Her Majesty’s Prisons. From what I read, the problems for prisoners only start when they are released. I would not have to face that difficulty.
I am not expecting prison to be roses all the way, of course. I am a boring old fart, I know, but I would hate to be locked up twenty hours of the twenty-four with a farting old bore.
Getting in would be the big problem. I have led an unblemished life for so long that I am struggling to find a crime that will get me jailed. I have to rule out violence. I did consider exposing myself to women but I decided that I could not face their derision when they spotted the little that my grubby raincoat revealed.
I know that it is terribly clichéd but I am tempted to pull a bank heist (note that I am already using criminal argot). If I do the job on a market day, I might even get away with it. Once outside and with my balaclava stashed who is going to notice one mobility scooter amongst the twenty or so disputing passage with fifty push-chairs?
The biggest problem will be with the judge, I feel. He or she will probably be reluctant to incarcerate a poor old man so he/she will likely send me for psychiatric assessment. I can just picture it.
Consultant Psychiatrist: “Interesting case here; some chap with an unblemished record suddenly turns up at his local bank and waves a fake pistol at them. Might be worth a look – oh no, hang on. Turns out he’s seventy-seven. Say no more! Miserable Underling, come here a minute. I’ve a job for you.”
Miserable Underling (grovelling): “At once, Sir.”
CP: “Another old nutter for you. Check him out for dementia and draft a reply that I can send to the court.”
Perhaps I should check out the conditions in secure psychiatric units.