Your time to die?
Dillon Sinclair-Snodgrass caused a momentary spike of interest around the bar when he asked what would be a good age to die.
He made the request more specific when he was told, ‘right now would be a good time for you’.
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I was wondering what age would you would pick if you had to choose an age to die.’
As usual, any topic that did not involve killing animals, complaining about in-comers or settling payment for jobs done - in ways the taxman would never fathom - was met with the initial stony silence it deserved.
Ten minutes later and half way down his pint, Fred Herbivore tipped his cap back and then settled it forward on its original place on his head. It was a signal he was about to speak.
Waiting for Fred to speak is like watching a volcano about to erupt. You know it is coming but you have to wait for the hot lava to push up through the ground and burst through the crust of rock. In Fred’s case it meant waiting while he searched through that part of his brain where words congregated.
‘Greyhounds,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘When they don’t win enough to buy their food.’ He nodded his head in affirmation. ‘That’s when.’
‘Racing pigeons too,’ Pariah Jones added. ‘A breeding cock that doesn’t do it no more.’
Dillon’s question was in for rigorous debate after all.
Picasso Delaney coughed and dived in. ‘Them is animals.’
‘And birds’ Pariah added.
‘Why would you choose an age to die?’ Picasso asked.
Adding another question to that already asked by Dillon, only ten minutes before, spread irritation among the men gathered in the bar. Picasso had just broken the rule forbidding more than one question to be asked in any discussion.
It was a good half pint later before Dillon dared make another comment. ‘The government might bring in a rule that said we had to choose an age to die, or they might pick one for us.’
‘That isn’t part of Brexit.’ Picasso said.
‘It could be part of their new austerity programme.’ Dillon answered him. ‘Think of all they would save if people chose to die before they reached the age for free TV licenses and winter fuel allowances.’
‘And pensions,’ Pariah added.
In the silence that followed, pints were pulled, feet were adjusted, backs were straightened, throats were cleared as those gathered in the bar worked around the challenging question Dillon had lobbed into their minds.
Picasso brought the ruminations to an end when he nodded to Silo Nagle asleep in the captains chair by the fireplace. ‘He mightn't win a greyhound race but he would pass the breeding pigeon test. He’ll be ok no matter what Tessie May decides.’ Silo, aged 92, had married a sixty year old from Studley only four weeks earlier. How could he be expected to give a proper answer?
Give Dillon his due, his questions are hard to answer and harder still to ignore.
It is one of the reasons we dislike him so much.
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