You won't believe it, but the kids won't let me go to a reunion in Botrivier next weekend," I overhear an elderly lady in a coffee shop complain to her friend.
"I mean, really? No, they're ‘uncomfortable with the idea'. They've ‘been told' things get ‘a bit wild' there."
"Oh, good grief, Katinka," the friend says indignantly, putting her cappuccino cup down hard, bracelets rattling furiously.
"Our children know sweet blue figgerall about wild! They wouldn't recognise it if it bit them on the nose! And the grandchildren, oh my word… Much as I adore them, they're even worse."
The two ladies are sharing a slice of cheesecake; attacking it together, more like. They could be well into their seventies, although it's difficult to tell. What with the blue jeans and platform sneakers and all. But the effects of lives lived to the brim are there to see.
"Tell you what," the friend suggests, "you come to tea with me, then the two of us slip out together.
"That we should see the day that we steal away from the damn kids to go to a party! Remember our high school days, sneaking out on a Friday night for a garage party? Putting our miniskirts on down the road so our dads wouldn't see?"
They're referring, of course, to the ‘bad old days' when the Beatles were banned and dancing was all but verboten because it could lead to sex. Those days.
"Those were the days," they laugh.
"And probably why we did go a bit wild at university. Oh, the happenings we had. Do you remember the De Waal brothers? Maybe a bit before your time, but girl, could they party. They did engineering; über achievers, academically as well as in all kinds of less prudent experiments.
"One got killed during military service later on, but the other became some tech billionaire in the US. And I hear he's back and coming to the party..."
They clink their cappuccino cups together.
I feel for them, I do. They are part of a large group of older people now exiting the labour market - the Baby Boomers and Generation X, born somewhere between 1955 and 1979.
They're the youth of the turbulent sixties and seventies, turning the world upside down. And now they're expected to quietly trot off into retirement like the generations before them, go play bowls somewhere on the grey edges of society, become invisible and doze off in their La-Z-Boys.
But not this lot, baby. They're the children of rebellion who came of age in the time of counterculture: the hippies, ‘sex, drugs and rock 'n roll' and burn-the-bra feminism.
They're the children of Woodstock; "Born to be Wild" as the rock songs of the time would have it (Steppenwolf 1969): "Lookin' for adventure, and whatever comes our way; we can climb so high, never wanna die".
And to this day they refuse to.
"Ageing disgracefully", the authoritative British weekly The Economist lamented in a recent article.
They're the new ‘problem generation' of the affluent West, picking up where they left off. And doing so recklessly. Putting their grandchildren to shame.
The magazine cites statistics showing a remarkable decline in alcohol consumption among the youth over the past decade. Quite the opposite is true for the 55-plus generation.
Same goes for the harder stuff, like cocaine and even ecstasy. The oldies are on a roll. Even in the hay, it seems, because STDs (sexually transmitted diseases) have suddenly become a major problem among the aged.
This, while their grandkids have become more chaste.
Britain's The Guardian has dubbed them the "Puriteens" (puritan teenagers).
Celibacy, for instance, has suddenly become a trendy topic on social media, with the likes of Justin Bieber, Lenny Kravitz and Lady Gaga openly subscribing. They've also become more prudish, resulting in Netflix reducing the sex and nudity in its youth content.
Even the granddaddies of rock like Mick Jagger are being chastised for songs like "Brown Sugar".
I can't help myself, but I kinda admire those irrepressible Boomers. Cool dudes, you lot.
Like the old ‘oom' in his Hilux who pulled up next to me at the traffic lights the other day. I paid him no mind... until he rolled down his window for a puff on his vape. Out pumped AC/DC's "Highway to Hell".
Before I knew it, my head was bobbing along to the beat and by the time the lights had turned green, we were rocking in our seats to the howling guitar of Jimi Hendrix in "Purple Haze".
Cool, omie, cool, I thought. And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror and had to laugh: I'm almost as old as the omie!
Which is why, I suppose, I let the tyres scream a little when pulling away. Show off!
We're the Boomers, dudes. Born to be wild.
