Dear mum and dad,

Do you remember that episode of Seinfeld when George Costanza’s parents’ finally disowned him, because they couldn’t take any more of the stupid firings from jobs, or the ridiculous reasons for his ending relationships with women? No, of course you don’t, because you hated Seinfeld.

Never mind. Mum, dad, this isn’t easy, but I need to pull a reverse Frank and Estelle Costanza on you. They disowned their crazy son – now I’m disowning my crazy parents.

Why?

Because I’ve had it, that’s why. I can’t take any more. The constant demand for attention every day. The stubborn refusal to move into the same full care section of the old folks’ home, so you can actually spend all day together without me having to run around transporting you to and from each other.

The endless and unnecessary shopping trips. Ma, you got enough food in your cupboards to survive the zombie apocalypse. The war ended over seventy years ago. You can stop rationing now.

The constant begging to be taken out to lunch, when, god love you, you’re so damn slow and immobile, that I either have to push you along in a chair, or stand around waiting for you to catch up. Besides which, you hate any cuisine that isn’t stodgy and English, a habit you picked up in the 1950s and never grew out of, so dining out with you is an excruciating experience, an endless search for places that serve fish and chips.

The continual near death experiences. The rushing to and from hospitals to find you propped up in bed, laughing it up with the nurses and doctors.

The constant medical appointments, for which I have to take a whole day off work to ferry you around, and the parking is awful in this city.

The constant asking me to come over and loosen the tops of bottles.

Goddamit! Move into full care and they’ll do all that crap for you. They’ll feed you and they’ll medicate you. The rate you’re going they’re gonna have to start medicating me.

I’m done, I can’t do this any more. I have my own life to lead, and I’m not getting any younger. They way you’re going, they’ll be burying me in the plot alongside you.

So I’d like to say, thanks, that’s it for me, see you later… but you know I can’t. Because I remember when I was young, you helped talk me down out of that tree when I got stuck, you walked me all the way to school when I was afraid, you stood up to that kid’s dad when he bullied me, and later, you let me move back into my old room when I broke up with girls for all those stupid illogical reasons. You also came and picked me up all the times I stupidly ran out of fuel, because I was poor and there were only about two petrol stations open late on roster in those days.

I know it sucks to grow old. I hate watching to shrivel up and fade away. It’s killing me, just not as quickly as it’s killing you. It sucks that you lose all your autonomy, that age sucks all the joy out of life. They take your car, they take your house, they take your money, they take your freedom. Worst of all, they take your memory, and your flexibility and physical capacity away from you, until you’re just a shadow of what you once were – a God. Now you’re just sitting there in an empty room, surrounded by what’s left of your memories, waiting for the end.

I only hope that there really is something more, that you hurtle from this mortality into a lush green field under a sky of azure, and tumble over and over until you realise you’re not hurt because you’re young again. You come to a stop on your backside and there’s all your friends, restored to their youthful vigour, laughing and pulling you to your feet.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Life spoilers. They all die in the end.

I’ll be round after work.