I’ve always retained an effusive avidity for my adolescent days of carefree indolence. Exalting an attritional revulsion to the notion of growing up, maturity and concept propagation. “Never!” I lambasted in the isolating solitude of my room, the classic PlayStation sigil illuminating my darkened confines as I began making a concerted effort to negotiate the vacant remnants of a police department in Raccoon City at 2 in the morning, on a school night no less! Those days of professing flippant censure enmity to these naturally complicit assurances have long since passed. I’m older, the grey hairs adorning the sides of my scalp are certainly indicative of this. Though my mind consolidates the puerile affection for smirking when someone utters the word “blue tit” and laughing at fart noises, or any bodily functions for that matter, I do command an analytical persuasion towards the necessary constructs of preferential maturity. With the arrival of my first child this coming April, which I’ll admit elicits excitement and provokes equal trepidation, the detached stupor evoked from my interspersed gaming, that facilitated interim glimpses of those heady days and blessed reprieve from my spouses nonsensical television programmes will likely (definitely!) diminish. Leaving traces of those embellished memories to conflate my absconded freedom, even the blissful staving of the compulsory provisions of maturity through convenient gaming interludes is a cruel declination for freedom. So what’s left for me now? Sorry? Watching my child grow up and all the blissful years of contentment I’ll share with said child and girlfriend as I introduce her/him to the exultant world of computer games? Well yes, of course there’s that….I guess. But you can’t make categorical comparisons to paternal tutelage and enduring a night in Raccoon City, obviously. Resident Evil is far more rewarding. I jest of course (I think?), but it does occur to me that I’ll never obtain that level of equanimity associated with being a child again. Well until I retire that is.
I’m not wishing away my life, I will continue to enjoy the anarchic vacuity of action movies deprived of any construct meaning and resist game shows or any television series structured around the densely boring world of antiquities *shudder*. But I must confess that the life of a pensioner, an asserted period dedicated to convalescence and the prohibition of mandatory employment is an appealing notion, one that is familiar to the mercurial inactivity of adolescence. Sure I’ll have a diminished dexterity in my thumbs which will likely be afflicted by arthritic inflammation. My skin will be as brittle as a grade 2 listed building, my hair will be deprived of rigidity and likely matted. My memory will be as reliable as a Republican manifest and I’ll be as medicated as Charlie Sheen in a lesbian strip club. But there is something profoundly alluring about prospective isolation. I think I’d enjoy the solitary optimisation of centralised accommodation, thrust into my retirement quarters in a lavish multi housing facility dedicated to the care of retired gamers, discussing the good old days in the communal gardens with the other residents. Sipping prune juice and sucking on Werther’s original while being besotted by the promiscuous 72 year “young” woman called Gertrude in her sexy knitted jumper, ankle high tartan skirt and in possession of all of her original teeth! Whittling a PlayStation 6 controller that has been fashioned from my own home grown produce (perhaps a turnip?) and arranging my collection of Uncharted ceramics, paraphernalia and assorted ornaments adorning every shelf space with symmetrical precision. I’ll be reclining in my rocking chair cursing the youth of the day and generally soiling myself. What a life! Just imagine all the time I could dedicate to gaming?! Rasping and wheezing like a 90-year-old hooker every time I lose a match on Fifa 58, whispering hoarse profanities to some teenage kid in Rochdale because I can’t afford to lose any more bodily fluids in case I dehydrate or conceivably lull into a diabetic coma. Go into a seizure every time I activate my ocular game system that has been integrated into my brain. Hmm? come to think of it that’s not actually sounding that appealing any more. Perhaps I’ll just sacrifice sleep when our offspring is born, in favour of nocturnal collaborations with my PS4 instead!
Whatever happens I just hope I can be half as cool as Hilda Knott I’ll be happy!