Kevin Page: Fleeting years are a sign of the times

It seems like yesterday when I arrived in Rotorua for my first job. Photo / Ben Fraser

It seems appropriate in this month of fiddling with the clocks and grabbing an extra hour under the covers that I should find myself thinking of how time really is rushing by these days.

It seems like just yesterday I piloted my trusty old Mitsubishi Lancer through the Central North Island fog to start a new job and new life in Rotorua.

It was, in fact, 1986 - not 1886 as the editor of this very newspaper suggested recently - and hours, days and months seemed to drag on for well, hours, days and months.

Of course, all that was fine back then because I didn't really give a fat rat's hind quarters. I was too busy partying with my mates, drinking, playing football etc.

Even the very notion of turning 30 was as far a speck in the distance as the chances of Winston Peters winning a Northland by-election.

But, like Winston's chances, times have changed.

Now the hours, days and months are rushing by so fast I really think the Government needs to look into it. Something has gone wrong.

It can't possibly be mid-April already. Christmas has only just gone, hasn't it?

I'm sure I'm right, because at Christmas I was given a very cheap and nasty watch. You know the type I mean. It's one of those things the little kids get you because they've got to get you something. Like a clothes peg, rubber band or a solitary scorched almond.

Anyway, I got given this watch on December 25, which as I say I'm sure was only about a month ago, and already I've got to mess around with it to make sure the new time is right.

But I can't work out how to turn the stopwatch off. And every so often, it beeps to remind me time is rushing by and I really am becoming a silly old sod.

This frustrating scenario is somewhat alarming.

A doctor friend and I were discussing life in general not that long ago and he said most people in his profession reckoned you have, and the exact number escapes me, about 15 good summers of living after you turn 50 before things start to wither and drop off.

Now this doesn't mean on September 29, 2028, the Rotorua Daily Post will be running my obituary. Though if they do, I hope they use the old picture of me from 1986 with a good crop of hair. No, it means, that on that day my temple, er, I mean my body, will be showing signs of over-worship and decay. So it will be time to take things a bit easier.

Having wasted two of my summers generally being cheesed off at turning the dreaded 50, I now find I have only 13 summers left to play with.

And as I say, they seem to be disappearing faster than they used to.

But to cheer me up is the news in a recent survey that New Zealand is something like the 13th best country in the world to grow old in and there's going to be more of us as the years progress.

So that's more people to do stuff with. Bit of golf, perhaps. Glass of red wine or two.

And the bloke on the phone last night trying to sell me something (I sort of went on autopilot and just kept saying "uh huh," so I have no idea what it was) seemed to confirm good times are ahead.

Apparently, I am part of a big target market. A 50-plus, empty nester (that is, the kids have flown the coop) with some disposable income (after contributing to the bottom line profit of Briscoes) and therefore I am a sought after commodity who will be cherished by everybody.

Especially retailers. Maybe even watchmakers.

That'll be handy. The frustration with my Christmas present just got to me and I threw it across the room. I guess I've just proved time really does fly when you're getting older.

Kevin Page has been a journalist for 35 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.