In a quiet moment of reflection, while waiting for the 108 bus to Barnsley, two things struck me… Three if you count the pebble which jettisoned from a passing car which ricocheted off the knuckles of my right hand,

One observation a philosophical take on the adage ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds. The other, as I don’t need to go to Barnsley, why the bloody hell was I queueing for a bus destined for the South Yorkshire metropolis. 

Taking the latter into account, I crossed the road to the stop where Wakefield buses collect passengers destined for my favourite West Yorkshire city rhyming with Shakefield; my intended destination.

Wakefield that is, not Shakefield. Shakefield is fictional, its name introduced into this prose to add whimsy. Although I’ll grant you that silliness was of lukewarm quality at best.

Anyhow, back to my philosophical thoughts about the advocacy ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds’…

Although I’ve had past instances of people not appreciating acts of kindness, financially and spiritually, my thoughts did not revolve around those negative episodes. I have not yet got to the point of forgive and forget, but at least I do realise the folly of utilising those thoughts negatively.

No, not long after the car tyre inadvertently fired a missile at my hand, it struck me that ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds’ can also be a guide in the context of self-care. 

For instance, I live alone and, as things stand, I’m lucky to be financially self-sufficient, and am able bodied. When you add I can undertake most household tasks (laundry, cooking, keeping flat tidy), I have existential metrics which afford me a reasonable lifestyle in retirement. 

However, whilst stood at the bus stop awaiting a bus I didn’t need, it struck me my behaviour could potentially bite that hand which feeds this comfortable zeitgeist. This existential ambrosia one or more bad behavioural judgements away from unravelling.

Not so much from a financial perspective, although I perhaps need to rein in some of my more outlandish impulse buys, such as a piano for the campervan and a full-size howitzer as a room ornament. The latter, I’ve concluded, taking up far too much space; leaving an obstacle course where my nest of tables used to sit.

Quite clearly, I made those two purchases up, but I can be more reckless fiscally than I should be at times. Thankfully, though, I have not got to the stage where I’ve emptied my pension pot and put it all on red… Or black.

One area where I really need to address is my health care. Despite not being overweight and eating healthily (most of the time) my exercise regime is lax; which needs to improve. 

I also need to cut back on my wine consumption, which in retirement has become almost nightly. Not to excess where yours truly wakes hungover or can’t remember why I went to bed the previous evening in a Scooby Doo fancy dress out. However, I am sensible enough to know that routine must be addressed.

I am not aware of any issue health wise; something which I’d like to think my precautionary annual blood tests would highlight. That, though, if I keep up my potentially self-destructive behaviour, or biting my hand which’s afforded my early retirement, could easily change.

Thankfully, as it stands, if I adopt a more sensible lifestyle, reducing this jeopardy to my health and finances can be mitigated against. It’ll also aid in controlling my capricious mental health swings.

This narrative isn’t penned with a view to fish for sympathy. I don’t need it and wouldn’t want it if I did. I am a grown-arsed man who is fortunate in many ways and has been for large swathes of six decades. 

“What is the moral of this tale then, Gary?” I hear you mutter through a mixture of indifference and coffee slurps.

Oh, I don’t know. Who knows, it might be a cry for help; or maybe just a few hundred words whose liberty from my chest gives me the kick up the ass needed to change the status quo.

Anyhow, I need to get off now as I’m meeting my son Jonny for lunch… Can anybody lend me £20 until my pension goes into my account next week? 😉 … Oh, and does anyone want to buy a howitzer? One careful owner; two if you count Field Marshall Haig.