Greetings · Well Fed Renegades

Greetings

Morning, all.

First, yes, I am mostly retired and focusing on my porn, science fiction, and taking care of Sarah for the comparatively little time she has left.

My pension doesn't quite bring enough in for us to live on, but the gap is small, around £1,000 a month. I'm already 20% of the way to making that up with my Kindle empire, so building it further is a no-brainer. A £1k investment over the next year to see if I can make this work is a small risk.

It doesn't hurt the insurance company has finally paid out on Sarah's diagnosis (who wants to see the acerbic email that got the cunts over the line to pay up?).

I should also get a fair old wedge from the compensation claim following my near-fatal cycling accident in March (I presume you all know about that?). That, and our pension lump sums, mean we're well set up for the future.

Nonetheless, I am still open to some business, primarily mentoring and consulting. But I don't need the money, and my fees will make your balls (or ovaries) hurt and your eyes water.

Anyway, life is pretty good, all things considered.

We're back in the UK now, living in Dorset.

In a flat.

In a retirement complex.

It was a strategic stroke of genius on my part: it's an assured tenancy (meaning we have it for life if we want it), and it's the perfect setup for Sarah as she declines.

But.

It also means I'm living in a flat in a retirement complex. If you thought old people had nothing better to do all day than channel Victor Meldrew, then you are absolutely right.

That said, I swear most of the other residents are already fucking dead, and no one has yet thought to tell them. The old ladies love me, and men hate me — all for the same reasons.

All that, coupled with the mind-numbingly labyrinthine bureaucracy involved in importing my car from Ireland, and getting the dumbfuck institutions — from banks to pension providers and everything in between — to cooperate with their legal obligations about the lasting power of attorney I have so I can manage Sarah's finances, means I am effectively living in a Kafkaesque Radio 4 play.

One exception is Lloyds Bank. They have been stellar in everything from resurrecting my 15-year dormant 35-year-old bank account to adding Sarah's account to mine so I can manage everything with one desktop login.

Whatever.

That's me.

Connor's his own man now, and this is his group, not mine. He'll do well.

And so he should, cuz he's had the best mentor and teacher around.

Questions?

P.S. This is my Substack, a 'passion project': https://evilbaldgenius.substack.com/

Join me for regular autistic old man rants.

I will be monetising it at some point, so don't think I've gone soft or fucking stupid.

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