MY ELDER brother cautioned me years ago about the psychological let-down of losing the privileges associated with any office. By that he meant facing life as a private Joe after years of being the boss, Mr Chairman, the Honourable Minister, or the bigshot with a retinue of staff, drivers, secretaries, and persons who waited on you hand and foot.
We did not fit into "any of the above", but as a result of his advice given freely to family and friends, I learnt very early to understand that the few benefits that accompanied my job were temporary and not my personal possession.
He, himself, enjoyed a career that positioned him close to the corridors of power. On occasion, he would remind me that this is just his job. "Don't be fooled," he would laugh. "The day after I leave office there will be a significant drop in the amount of cocktail party and dinner invitations."
Fortunately, his per-sonality was such that he continued to enjoy the respect and genuine friendship of many after his retirement.
Unable to let go
The trappings of office are difficult to shed for many. As luck would have it, politicians are usually the ones who land the hardest after they are rejected or ejected from office.
No longer the Honourable Sir, no more the standing ovations when they enter a room, no longer the long and vociferous laughter from the party faithful when they crack the corniest of jokes, no longer the chauffeur and the car. This must be one of the reasons why politicians will cling to power at all costs, and it also explains the deep-set motivation for those who have fallen from grace to want to return to office.
It happens to people in the public and the private sectors. Those who boasted privileges and allowances are at a loss when they have to pay their own utility bills, shop in an ordinary supermarket, join a line, or come to grips with saying the word 'please'.
You will know you have lost it when the security guard lowers the gate and asks you for your name. Or when you phone your old office and the operator says, "Mr Who?" Or when you are stopped in the roadblock and the policeman says, "Ah don't care who you is or who you know."
My turning point
I experienced my own turning point on this matter shortly after retirement. Driving up the Mt Rosser hill one morning, my car radiator blew up and I found myself without a clue of what do. Fortunately, I was rescued by a kind passer-by who escorted me to Ewarton, where I found a roadside repairman.
Later in the day, the mechanic and I got into an overloaded taxi for the tortuous drive to Kingston to buy new parts. I was squeezed in-between two buxom ladies who eyed the messy radiator parts in my lap with disdain while they displayed Linstead's commercial best.
It was while crossing Flat Bridge that it came home to me that only a couple of months before, I could have called the office, got a wrecker, secured a drive home, and have the bill paid. I had a good laugh at myself thinking "if only my former co-workers could see me now". My fellow passengers were not amused, but it was at that point I knew I had become private Joe again, and was relishing it.
There are many counselling sessions and theories on retirement, but nothing beats the real world of sharing more value time with family, waving to the fisherwomen who pass my gate every morning, having time for a leisurely chat with the barber without having to look at my watch, or laughing at things once taken too seriously.
Who would have thought that politicians screaming so passionately at each other could have taken the Manatt and the Trafigura affair to a level of pure comedy with one side galloping around the countryside to defend a position, while the other is hot on their heels playing chevy chase?
Who will say 'feh' first when they meet at Flat Bridge? Watch this space.
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