Robinson

Is there really no free lunch? I found myself pondering this deep philo-sophical conundrum one Monday morning, after two successive horseracing festivals: the Breeders Cup in California and our own Superstakes. I don't care what Betty-Ann Blaine says, only wimps, lackeys, yes-men and wives can resist punting themselves into oblivion on those weekends. 'Real Men', the sort I used to be before I got married don't hold back, exhausting all disposable income before delving into dirty trousers' pockets, children's piggy banks, or under sofa cushions (my personal favourite) for any available currency to donate to the Totalisator.

My hero, the legendary Andy Capp, would, logically, first try Flo's purse. That's why he's a hero and we're mere mortals. The Old Ball and Chain is too experienced to leave her stash anywhere near me on these weekends and the slightest hint of a request for short-term bridging finance is met with a look that withers every appendage and pathetic irrelevancy about SOMEBODY having to feed her children. Yet she's just completed a three-day tour of hardware stores (girlfriend in tow) spending freely on materials to refurbish said boisterous brood's bathrooms thereby extending indefinitely their unwelcome and apparently permanent residency status!

'Rum talk'

So you risk every available financial resource to recoup losses on a certainty in the Superstakes, appropriately named Rum Talk. But, the expected front-runner Saint Cecelia, is inexplicably held up and, in a paceless race, 52-1 no-hoper, HOMBRE, makes all from Rum Talk finishing late into second. The coup de grace is delivered Sunday evening by your Trainer who has just purchased a lovely-looking yearling for you (bargain price - J$900,000.00) and could he please have the cheque by Friday. And so, at an advanced age, you finally come to understand the meaning of your sainted Grandmother's favourite word: 'conniption'.

Naturally, Old B.C is listening silently on the extension (that most despicable of inventions) and so, when you wake up Monday morning, it's no longer as a resident of Olde Humble Abode but a temporary guest of your only unmarried friend, living (of course) in a district called Bliss. Firstly, you must figure out how his bathroom works because he's gainfully employed and has left before you had woken up. Why can't every toilet have the same strength flusher? And every shower work the same way? Come on Bruce, harmonized showers, now that's something I can vote for. Uniform toilets, I'll make a large campaign contribution!!

The next problem is lunch. The thing about bachelor friends over 40 is that their homes are altogether too bloody neat. No loose cash anywhere! Certainly no banknotes lost inside books because, in the age of Feisty Book; My Farce; Gargle; and Tweety, books are obsolete. So, a free lunch it'll have to be. Who to visit, unexpectedly, just around lunchtime?

Tormented by financial embarrassment due to selfish depravity, I mulled on the likelihood of my planned mooch being truly 'free' which reminded me of the abolition of user fees at public hospitals. One of Old BC's contractors' sons, suffering from seizures, was recently rushed to hospital and admitted overnight. No user fee was charged.

Intervention

But the nurses were nonchalant; both parents had to stay overnight to ensure any attention; and the toddler was given incorrect dosages resulting in further seizures while hospitalised. Eventually, a private doctor's intervention belatedly righted the ship. Free? With the pain, suffering, anxiety and lost work time? I don't think so.

Meanwhile, Dwight Nelson is rushed to Miami with a tummy-ache that turns out to be 'common-a-garden' gall stones. I bet user fees were charged. Who paid? If he was forced to attend a local facility, would it be as poorly staffed and equipped? Perish the thought, but suppose the PM's grandson develops seizures. Where will he go? Is it expensive Miami for the Leaders and 'free' KPH for the Followers?

"Well you crack the sky scrapers fill the air.

Will you keep on building higher 'til there's no more room up there?

Will you make us laugh?

Will you make us cry?

Will you tell us when to live?

Will you tell us when to die?

I know we've come a long way.

We're changing day to day.

But, tell me, where do the children play?"

Freeness, like much of this mortal toil, is illusion. My 'free' lunch would cost too much discomfort in pleasantries, small talk, explanations of my situation and pressure to return the favour. Better to beg Old BC's forgiveness. There's no free lunch.

Peace and Love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com