In Credit

Measured like pocket money,

time is best saved up and stored,

or at least never spent all in one go.

Unless, of course, there is something

you have craved for ages, and the urge

to flash the cash is worth the risk.

 

At ninety-two Dad had eeked it out

and got off pretty lightly, given

cigars and gambling and their tendency

to nibble away at human resources.

Horses for courses, but the flat season

has given way to not such great odds.

 

At fifty-seven I had just a small stash

of cash in the attic. I should be sitting

pretty as the bus pass and pension

draw near but how many times

can you start and re-start the sand

as it trickles to a conical heap below?

 

We all make our withdrawals like

there is no tomorrow, or like the

rainy day is a myth, never to dampen

our blithe spirits or offend our

investment in forever. But sooner

or later the nasty stuff hits the fan.

 

Borrowed time is no time like the

present and being in the moment

is the universal currency. That will

do nicely says the man at the till

as you chip and pin your way to

the very edge of your allowance.