I wasn't alone in having a recent trip to Paris cancelled at the last minute, as King Charles had his postponed last week due to ongoing protests in France. A proposed lavish banquet planned by President Macron in Versailles would have jarred with a French public who decapitated the last regal resident of the palace in 1793.
While France may have created the template for civil disturbance, rioting was brought to its natural conclusion during 30 years of the Troubles. No doubt if I'd been able to reschedule my Paris trip, I'd have landed in the middle of the mayhem, though burning tyres beside the Seine paradoxically holds a somewhat romantic allure for someone from north Belfast.
This bout of Parisian protest – it happens there more regularly than the train service – is due to Macron's attempt to push through a raise in the retirement age from 60 to 62. I find it hard to empathise as I'll have to keep breathing until I reach 67 before I have any of my National Insurance contributions returned.
Not that I'm holding out for a pension as retirement is a concept which fills me with horror. No doubt this is partly due to the fact I come from farming stock, and in the country, retirement comes via the grave and the grave only.
For me, Covid was a wake-up call, as aside from extended stays in hospital, it was the first time in my adult life that I'd been unable to work. I lasted about four days before my wee head nearly exploded and I ran into my garden and started digging holes.
We live in a world where people work very hard so they can retire and do nothing later in life. I inherited my work-life balance from my late father, whose philosophy was passed on via a salutary story.
At one time Belfast's youngest publican, Dad was held in high esteem by his local bank. One day the manager called him in, explaining the bank now held the deeds to a very prestigious pub which had come into their possession after the owner had defaulted on a loan.
The manager offered my dad the bar under very favourable conditions, knowing that the bank would eventually recoup their losses if he took the business on. Dad thanked the manager for thinking of him but said he wouldn't feel right profiting from another man's misfortune.
The manager was somewhat taken aback, and I must admit I was in the manager's corner at this point in the story. But, as Jimmy Cricket would say, there's more. Only five years later, with the Troubles now in full flow, the bar he'd refused was bombed and reduced to rubble.
And so, while I work hard I'm selective about the work I take on. My long-suffering agent, David Hull, reminds me I could be making a fortune if I'd only agree to do corporate work. I explain I don't like doing those gigs and earn enough doing what I enjoy.
I also decided long ago that traipsing the length of the big island wasn't for me; I'm a home bird and usually only play theatres from where I can drive back to my own bed. This obviously has meant there was never any chance of me 'making it big' yet I don't feel I've missed out.
I run a small business, walk my dogs and tour once a year, playing to audiences I love, plus I get to try out other ideas when they occasionally spark in my aged and ever-dimming brain.
My attitude is summed up in the story about an American visiting Ireland to play golf who met a local man selling cockles. The American loved the man's cockles and asked him if he sold them online. The man said that sounded like a lot of hard work, that he preferred to sell locally and spend his free time with his family and friends, supping the odd pint in his local bar.
The American was bewildered, telling the man that all he needed do was hook up with him and they'd start an international cockles business. He'd guarantee if he worked flat out for 20 years he'd become a millionaire, retire at 60 and be able to... spend the rest of his days with his family and friends, supping the odd pint in his local bar.
In conclusion: I've often wondered what professional golfers like Rory McIlroy do when they retire? Stop playing golf?
