Pensions and Pole-Dancing

Week 13

Pensions and Pole dancing…

More legalese bureaucracy, despite the fact that neither of us wishes to have any claim upon the other’s (miniscule) pension funds; “Both parties are required to furnish up to date statements of pension entitlements…” So I rang and requested an up to date Statement of Benefits.

Back came a letter from the Management Co. of the Fund- I- Was -Hoping- Would- Keep- Me- in- Chocolate- and- Wine -in- My- Old- Age.

Dear Ghráinneog,

“As you know the worldwide recession has affected all investments…blah blah blah…The current DEFICIT on the pension plan of which you are a member stands at €29 million. There is a plan in train to sell various properties belonging to the Trust, but in the current property market sale profit (if any) is expected to be small.  Despite our best efforts, we cannot foresee any way in which the deficit can be substantially reduced or eliminated in the foreseeable future.. “

In other words; we’re already in the red to the tune of €29 mil, so by the time you retire, kiddo, well it’s not looking good…

The final sentence; “We would remind you that pension payments are discretionary…”

Well now.  No point in getting upset or railing against morally bankrupt bankers and politicians when the bloody pension fund is going fiscally bankrupt. Been there, worn the t-shirt, marched. No. Time to work out a Plan B. My joking about supplementing the (discretionary) payment (whatever that is) by taking up pole-dancing if my back holds up, is less of a joke now. Alternatively, if I ever manage to stop crying and feel like a human being again, I might take up Stand up Comedy. For the craic. Craic has been sadly missing of late. Or I could just concentrate on trying to win the Lotto. In the meanwhile, the image of a pensioner pole-dancing round a Zimmer frame cheers me up immensely.

Today’s affirmation; “My world is filled with abundance”. Today’s task; to write a list of 50 things to be grateful for.  Out with the jewelled notebook…

1. I have family who love me.
2. I have friends who care about me…..

By the time Number 35 was reached, (Lemon Meringue Pie) I was ready to fall asleep, counting my blessings instead of sheep. (Of which I have none).

Speaking of sheep…

A relative of my ex had died in the West of Ireland, where she had lived all her life. The farthest she had been was Dublin, and then only as a young girl before she married, had 12 children and struggled to bring them up on the takings of a smallholding of poor land. This at a time when the eldest of a family was often gone to America before the youngest was born.

Nonetheless, she had lived a happy life and came into riches when she achieved her old age pension. God love her, she marvelled at this money that came to the Post Office every week. Not that she was a big spender. She lived to be 96, and attributed her longevity to hard work, saying the Rosary nightly, and a naggin of brandy a day.

But I digress.  Extended family came from the USA, England, and Australia and assembled the night before the funeral. She was well waked, and they were well watered. At 6 am it was decided to go into the fields and pick mushrooms for breakfast. Children and grown up grandchildren scattered across the farm. The freshest mushrooms you ever tasted were added to plates of bacon rashers, sausages, black pudding, and orange-yolked eggs snatched from under the squawking hens in the barn.

At lunchtime,  solemn rituals over, the funeral banquet took place in a local hotel. At 9 pm they were still in the bar singing. All went well until Farmer X, a successful breeder of fancy sheep and winner of many “Best Sheep in show” rosettes, got into an argument with another sheep farmer, who had pipped his ewe at the post at the local show. “My sheep are far betther lookin’ nor yours”, he roared at his arch rival in the Sheep Beauty stakes. Overcome with the loss of the dead relation, the loss of his “Miss Woolly World” title, and drink, he took a swing at him. The hotelier called the Guards, and he was carted off to sleep it off in a cell.

 Another scion of the family, who was something big in the UK although no one knew quite what, decided to take a spin in the top of the range Bentley car he’d brought across on the ferry. The local Garda, then keeping an eye on things in the village Main Street, thought differently. Unfortunately he was unable to persuade the driver of the Bentley of the wisdom of this. With the result that on the day of the funeral in a small town in the west of Ireland, the Bentley Driver took a swing at the Guardian of the Peace and was subsequently arrested and thrown in jail. To be charged the following day with assaulting a Garda, breach of the peace and drunk driving.  I’d have been mortified if it were my family, no matter how distantly related. My ex’s reaction was very different. He came back to Dublin full of tales of mushrooms, Miss Sheep World rivalries, and members of his extended family being given Bed and Breakfast in a Garda Station.  “Now that’s what you call a proper funeral”, he said. I said nothing. They do things differently down the country.