More and more of my old friends are being sent up the river to rest homes by their lazy families, at least that is the way many of us of a certain age see it.

Perhaps said families are at their wits' end with Uncle Lucas screaming from the basement that he has struck gold in the laundry room. Or dear Granddad has shot Rufus the pet wombat and served it up to loud screaming from the children.

I know it is difficult, but try to see it from our point of view. We think of ourselves as elders with wisdom and humour oozing out of our pores, a lifetime's worth of erudition. However, the once-warm collective stares back at us as if we are something creepycrawly.

All we want is a warm room and familial dinners to gum our way through, surrounded by loving relations. Yes, yes, there are those old people smells, although I don't notice much anymore. Of course fighting seniors for their car keys is not always pleasant, but it is necessary, particularly after Nana took out a hedge that required 20 years to grow. But in the end, condemning us to a rest home is like dropping a faithful dog at the pound with a note pinned to its collar, saying: This is Peabody, do as you wish.

I have heard all the prorest home propaganda, but I am not buying it. I have a friend (Edwin) who was taken away from his little bedroom in the attic of his eldest son's house only halfdressed to that legendary up-Island residence the Shy Beaver, also known as the Goodbye House.

He was philosophically smoking his pipe in the courtyard until a large woman took a handy water cannon to him and gave Edwin a harsh soaking, breaking his pipe and blowing what was left of his clothing over the wall. Her laughter brought other attendants who joined the hilarity, making that small and now very pink man dance with the hose. I received this news scribbled on thin toilet paper last week.

Mrs. ffrangington-Davis sat next to me the other day at the club (the home of homes) and divulged that she had a ghastly visit with an old school chum now incarcerated (her words) by her loving relatives at a place called the Timid Fawn. Her friend was exhausted from lack of sleep because they have bingo 24 hours a day to fund the staff pension reserves. Everyone must bet, but the Fawn always wins.

The blind admiral wondered if it was any better in the far north. When a tribe could not feed the old ones, they put them on a fastmoving ice floe and that was it. We all started shouting "We don't eat much!" and "Be quiet!" I think we were worried that the admiral's words might give our relatives ideas, and as I don't do well in the cold, I for one wanted no more talk along those lines.

Martinis were ordered immediately in order to dash these unpleasant thoughts. Dead silence followed as we ruminated on the sorry state of growing old. Many of us eyed the more elderly of the nearby mems, wondering what awaits them just around the corner. What new and more frightful stories will seep out to furrow our club brows?

I suppose it is like all things in this game of life -it depends on your family. If you happen to come from a loving environment, then all will be well. If, however, your son or daughter has never forgiven you for taking the last bit of marmalade all those years ago, then things could get tricky on the raft of old age. majornigelsb@gmail.com