The Village People

A lot of change is taking place in my life at the moment.

In the past two weeks, the following developments have occurred:

1. We sold our house; and 
2. BEB got a job interstate.

This means that in the coming weeks/months, BEB and I will be living in different states, until either:

1. BEB finds us a place to live in Melbourne; or 
2. I get a job in Melbourne. 

The job BEB has landed sounds exciting and offers opportunities for the future. It has the right mix of being familiar enough for him to feel comfortable in the position, but is coupled with the chance to develop further skills and experience. It seems to tick all the boxes. I am excited for BEB. 

BEB meanwhile has to live with his parents at their retirement village until we find a place to live. It’s not as bad as it sounds - access to a pool, a gym, daily activities, happy hour, plus all those doting old ladies who will fuss over him. I will be lucky if BEB ever wants to leave.

The retirement village where BEB’s parents live is like Club Med for the mature-aged. According to its website, the Villlage offers residents a choice of two and three bedroom villas and condominium. It also has:

• A Community Centre
  
• Extensive library
  
• Lounge areas
  
• Hairdressing, masseur and podiatry services
  
• Billiard table
  
• Grand piano
  
• Landscaped courtyard; and
  
• 24-hour emergency call buttons

My grandparents live in a five bedroom house in what could accurately be described as an “undesirable” area of Brisbane’s far-eastern suburbs. Their home offers:

• A frighteningly large amount of clutter 
• Dust coverage that could suffocate a small child
  
• An abundance of cat hair, care of their daughter’s feline companion
  
• Tripping hazards in the form of rugs and phone cords (and their daughter’s feline companion)
  
• An extensive range of pest droppings in kitchen cupboards, including those from mice and cockroaches; and
  
• Fort Knox quality security grilles to prevent the booming criminal community from gaining access to the residence. These grilles also prevent escape from said residence, particularly in the event of fire.

I have seen the oldies that buzz about BEB’s parents’ thriving little Village community. They listen to the cricket on the radio while tending to the co-op garden, they share a few drinks at happy hour every Friday night, and they have barbecues by the bowling green on Sundays. And although their bodies may have weakened, their lust for life has not.

At happy hour a few years ago I asked one of the Village people, Joy, to give me the dirt on what really goes on at the Village. Joy gestured to a sweet old woman, easily in her seventies, seated behind me. I turned around and smiled at her. She smiled back. Joy said her name was Margie.  Joy then waved at an elderly gentleman, dressed smartly in pressed trousers and a checked button-up shirt. Joy called him Pat.

Joy then explained to me Margie and Pat had made a “scene” at last year’s Christmas party, when Margie “went underneath” Pat’s table. The worst part, Joy explained, was when Margie hurt her back trying to get out from underneath the table. Some of the staff at the village had to stretcher Margie back to her villa.

I then forced Joy to repeat all of this to BEB so that I would have a corroborating witness in the event of no one believing this scandal. I would later ask Joy how long the waiting list was to move into the Village, and if BEB and I could move in now.

I was in love with the Village.

It is my greatest wish for my grandparents to be convinced to move somewhere like the Village. My grandmother doesn’t know where (or who) she is anyway, so she wouldn’t put up a fight. But my grandad is stubborn and has emphatically told me that the next place he is moving to will be a coffin.

So, for now, I will continue to help them in their own home. And I will tell myself that I have done my best for them.

I just hope I can start believing this before my Grandad makes his next move.