ADJUSTING TO RETIRED LIFE

I have been a mediocre journalist-author all my life in this age of mediocrity. Living life large and tenaciously all through my career in India and Africa, steadfast in the pursuit for scoops despite being short-changed by employers and fifth-columnists.

Suddenly, there were no deadlines to meet. It was hard, harrowing emptiness. Morning walks and gardening, walking the dog didn't help. Afternoon naps became necessary and evening visits to the temple to please the distraught wife. The evening drink did not taste the same.

Insomnia struck and tranquilizers provided a mellowing influence. "Happy pills" led me to quench my intellectual thirst to the neighborhood watering holes and eventually into a hospital for rehabilitation and age-related depression.

Ironically, I found solace in the hospital's disciplined atmosphere. No smoking and no liquor. In the beginning, I accepted the hospital routine, acquired a computer and started doing freelance work for several newspapers, syndicated articles, if you know what I mean. But soon, I got tired of it.

The result was a showdown with the control-freak hospital CEO.  My threat to get a discharge worked wonders. So, I was allowed to smoke only six cigarettes a day and 180 ml. of Scotch in the evening.

Since I have never been a rehab case, the dosage has increased to 240 ml. of Scotch and eight sticks of Marlboro Lights.

And this morning, my American son beseeched me yo visit the family in the San Feancisco bay area. I agreed on condition that he will have no objection o my hubtivity.