Secret of Life

"Work hard, work hard," said my friend's teenage son, who I have always thought was gay, who naturally seems to gravitate into my orbit whenever I am around. He's doing year 12 and says all he hears is people telling him to work hard.

"Secret to life," I say.

"But nobody tells you when the pay off is for working hard?" said Patrick.

"I'll tell you, it's in thirty years time, when you will be thankful for working hard." Forty years, maybe, but I was being kind.

"Thirty years?" His voice squeaked. He looked embarrassed. I felt embarrassed for him.

"Yeah, that's the bit they don't tell you?"

"What?"

"You doing all of this so ultimately you can pay for your own nursing home costs."

"All of what?"

"Life, haven't you been listening?"

He said he wanted to kill himself. He has a touch of the dramatics about him, as I said.

"Sprog up a couple of kids, and a nice funeral, that's all that's promised," I said. "At least if you work hard, you'll be able to take your mistresses to nice hotels, you know, when your kids hate you and your wife has more interest in shopping than you."

Patrick's eyes widened.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Stop scaring him." It was Patrick's mother Jesse. "At least wait until this year is done."

I'm pretty sure that Patrick's eyes widened in the recognition that babies and girls weren't in his future, nothing to do with working until he was old, something I'm sure Jesse missed.

Jesse and I were in the kitchen later and the words, Do you think Patrick is gay, were materialising on my lips, but, she has never mentioned it, and I thought better of asking.