My Plans for the Third Age

Want to grow old disgracefully? Writer Kathy Lette and her girlfriends have it all sussed out…

It’s a sad fact of life that most husbands die earlier than their wives. Typical, eh? Leaving all the cleaning up to the women!

Of course, where there’s a will… we wives expect to be in it. But our families have expectations too – that we’ll dwindle into beige cardigan-wearing senility, knit the odd doily then simply fall off the perch, leaving all our worldly goods to them. But the question is – now that we’re holding the cheque book, why should we just check into some grim maximum-security nursing home? With all your widowed women friends in the same financial boat, why not pool your resources – and buy one?

My girlfriends and I plan to cash up, when the time comes, and purchase a small cruise ship. We’re going to call it HMS Pantyliner. We’ll then spend our remaining days cruising up and down the Caribbean, frittering away our children’s inheritance. Is this selfish? Irresponsible? You bloody bet it is! Hey, where there’s a will, your kids don’t have to be in it. Being of sound mind, I have spent all my moolah on myself, sailing the seven seas. Surely we’ve already done enough for our kids? Okay, we drive our offspring crazy, but we also drive them everywhere. For decades.

Besides, think of how good it would be for our health… The chance of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation with a tautly posterior-ed sailor with pecs-appeal would give any woman a reason to keep living. Our crew will be muscular young Love Gods in tight, white shorts. Which is why we’ve also nicknamed our boat the “Aqua-disiac.”

I’ve been best friends with this particular group of women since we bought our first bras – making us true bosom buddies. There’s a barrister, a stand up comedian, a publican, a parole officer, an arts administrator, a sitcom writer, a teacher and a businesswoman. As deranged working mothers, our time together has always been erratic and truncated. The thought of all that uninterrupted girl talk and confessional cackling means we’re all actually looking forward to old age.

Basically, my girlfriends and I will be so contented we’ll make the Waltons look depressed. Picture it – the sea beneath your private balcony fizzing and frothing like the French Champagne that your personal butler is handing to you with an offer to peel you a grape and fan you with lotus leaves. Or maybe your craving is for a toy boy on a bed of lettuce, or rather, matelot en croute?

For extra “floatation” (a ship-board romance) we may even recruit some “gentlemen hosts” to wine and dine us. We’ll advertise for men who are foot-loose and fiancée-free. Blokes who believe in life, liberty – and the happiness of pursuit!

I’ve often worried that living onboard a boat might make you want to re-christen it HMS Claustrophobia. What’s prevented me from taking cruises in the past is the fear of being stuck playing remedial Scrabble with a groper with halitosis and the personality of a houseplant. Or being forced to sing the harmony line to Kum Bah Yah ad nauseam. But, on the good ship Pantyliner, there’ll be no such fear, as all entertainment will be supplied by us. My gal pals and I have decided to take up the instrument we gave up in our youth so that we can have a really bad band. We’ll be like the new Beatles – only with about nine Ringos. We’ll also have an inclinator for easy access into the sea. A medic/masseur to rub us in lotions and potions. And electric wheelchairs for when we want to pop ashore to purchase the odd indigenous nose flute and look at the few ancient relics (besides each other). Then, when weary, we’ll just shuffle back aboard for a dip in the outdoor whirlpool as the boat glides off to our next exotic anchorage.

So, ladies, don’t go quietly into that good night. Organise. Pool your resources. When your ship comes in – don’t be in a musty old people’s home. Who cares if your offspring think you’re being self-centred? Believe me, watching handsome sailors with toned torsos stripping off during lifeboat drill, gives a whole new meaning to navel gazing.

Kathy Lette’s latest novel is How to Kill Your Husband (and Other Handy Household Hints) (Simon & Schuster, £12.99)