There used to be a joke that got bandied around nationally so that in the end, one never really knew where it originated or who it was attributed to. I heard it this way: “Where would you hide money from an Englishman?” Under a bar of soap, being the answer. Followed by raucous laughter if you weren’t an Englishman or only half-raucous if you were Anglo-Indian such as myself (for one had to demonstrate allegiance, even if only partially, as one technically carried an Indian passport).

The English, however, claimed that that particular joke was original, invented by them, about the French.

A Frenchman I spoke to set aside his reading of Rene Descartes and waved his hand philosophically, dismissing such gags as gutter humour. I half expected him to quote someone intellectual in his defence, say the poet Rimbaud (‘La vie est la farce a mener par tous’ ... ‘Life is the farce we are all forced to endure’) or maybe something even more substantial from the 18th century Enlightenment writer, historian and philosopher Francois-Marie Arouet, known as Voltaire, (‘Un bon mot ne prouve rien’ ... ‘A witty saying proves nothing’); or Voltaire’s other comeback, (‘Les opinions ont plus causé de maux sur ce petit globe que la peste et les tremblements de terre’ ... ‘Opinions have caused more ills than the plague or earthquakes on this little globe of ours.’) He quoted, instead, much to my delight and surprise, something I was able to identify with, from Dire Straits’ Solid Rock, ‘When you point your finger cos your plan fell through/You got three more fingers pointing back at you.’ The aforementioned joke when directed at the Aussies goes: “Where would you hide money from an Aussie?” Oh, put it anywhere, for they are too lazy to go searching for it anyway ... is the answer.

My uncles who migrated to Australia back in the 1960s would, maybe, agree to that. They worked hours and hours of overtime on their jobs quite simply because (a) they wanted to set themselves up quickly, buy their own houses and (b) no Aussie wanted to work more than his fair quota of hours a day, including time off for ciggie breaks.

“Get a life, mate go on home.”

Well, the uncles got the houses first then proceeded to attempt to get a life that may have, in a typically time-fleeting way, passed them by while they were busy at work. For it is true that all the enjoyments you are likely to indulge in when in your 30s, you’re not likely to embark upon when you’re knocking on the door that admits you to the club for sixty-year-olds.

A peculiar cycle

You give up so you can get; then you get and you find in the process what you’ve given up can possibly never be attained. It’s a peculiar cycle. On the other hand, you are free (in the truest democratic way) to enjoy life while it is on offer (drive down to the beach, soak up the sun, ride the high waves, glimpse the frightening sight of a shark fin as it glides by beneath the surfboard, go to the races, take your chances on the horses [what they cryptically call ‘hope for the better’], drive a fast car [top down], feel the wind through your hair...). In other words, all the things that five extra hours inside the factory can never give, despite the money on offer.

“It’s your choice, mate. Have a happy life! No judgements. Whatsoever.”

At 60, having attained the dream of owning a house, paying off the mortgage, there’s sometimes a need to make life pay for what it’s done to your younger years. So, the obligatory cruise is taken; sitting on a deck at a port watching the younger ones frolicking on the beach ... wondering: “Will they ever wise up, have what I have ... which is, security?” Was Andre Chenier right, maybe, when he observed, ‘Qui previent le moment l’empeche d’arriver’? ‘He who anticipates the moment prevents it from arriving.’

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.