I didn’t start reading fiction in earnest until I was 22, the age at which I finally left academia behind. It was 1987, my first job was in Central London and I was renting a flat in Finchley which meant I had a commute with time to kill and time to fill. I had money, my own flat (albeit shared+rented) and a growing circle of friends. Most notably, we suddenly had no studying or homework to do, we had cash in our pockets and our weekends and weekday evenings were ours – no homework, no parents, just us, and for me that created space for reading.

I read on the train on the way in to work, I read on the way home and I left books on my office desk, partly to impress, partly to sneak read at lunchtime and partly to spark conversation. I liked reading and I started to like, and be attracted to, booky people.

I can’t remember why, but Martin Amis was one of the first novelists I read, and ‘Success’ was one of the first books. It may have been a recommendation, but it could just as easily have been the enticing book cover in an Islington bookshop that drew me in. I knew of his father, Kingsley, and had tried and failed to read one of his books, so maybe I felt the son might be more relatable.

I was in my 20s, Martin Amis was just about still in his 20s when he wrote Success, it was set in London, I was in London, some of it was even in Islington … and the main character Gregory was desperate to get a girlfriend. I was a long way from home and whilst I wasn’t lonely, I was often alone, and Success seemed to resonate. I can’t remember a lot about the book, but this isn’t meant to be a review, it’s a homage. What I do remember is feeling quite sophisticated, but not in a pretentious way. It felt grown up to be reading Martin Amis novels.

Success wasn’t a very big book either and so it wasn’t long before I read my second Martin Amis novel – Dead Babies. It was an edgy title and had a cool cover. From what I recall, it was essentially a book about a weekend long party, but what I enjoyed the most was the characters and the back stories. There was sex, drugs and misogyny, although I would never have used that word back then. But what I found utterly fascinating were the characters, experiencing a world far more dangerous, darker and sexier than the world I inhabited. I didn’t want to be there, but I wanted a ticket, it was utterly compelling and I never knew fiction could quite be like that. I also discovered how much I love characterisations in a novel, much more than plot-lines and that has stayed with me to this day.

I then read The Rachel Papers, which had by far the best cover and left the strongest impression on me. The book is essentially about a dickhead called Charles, but it was Rachel I fell in love with, or rather I fell in love with the idea of Rachel. The book left me feeling sad, a peculiar feeling as I never wanted to be in there – Charles was a dickhead, that much I remember – but those characters were immersive, I wanted to be swimming in and around their lives for a lot longer than the book allowed.

To me, these books were a trilogy, although I’m not sure if they were ever formally called that. To me, they told stories of a life lived in close proximity to my own, but also a million miles away, and that perhaps made it all the more fascinating and enticing. I wanted it but I didn’t want to be part of it.

Reading the Martin Amis trilogy ’87-’88 re-launched my love for fiction. I realised that reading fiction didn’t have to mean reading Classics. Reading could be now, it could be here, it could be edgy, dark, funny and contemporary. In fact Amis taught me that reading could be whatever you wanted it to be, it needn’t be safe, nor pre-approved, and that sparked something inside of me that slowly smouldered for years as I browsed north London bookshops on my lunch breaks and rainy Saturdays, forever searching for the next great novel.

I only read two more Martin Amis novels, falling off the Amis wagon after Money and London Fields. I’m not sure why I stopped there, perhaps I had outgrown him, perhaps it was just time to move on. In truth I think he had outgrown me, he became too cerebral, too Will Self before Will Self was in fact himself. Whatever, we diverged, but hearing of his passing this week I am left feeling quite saddened. Amis set me off on a literary journey for which I will be forever grateful. RIP Martin and thank you for my trilogy.

I didn’t start reading fiction in earnest until I was 22, the age at which I finally left academia behind. It was 1987, my first job was in Central London and I was renting a flat in Finchley which meant I had a commute with time to kill and time to fill. I had money, my own flat (albeit shared+rented) and a growing circle of friends. Most notably, we suddenly had no studying or homework to do, we had cash in our pockets and our weekends and weekday evenings were ours – no homework, no parents, just us, and for me that created space for reading.

I read on the train on the way in to work, I read on the way home and I left books on my office desk, partly to impress, partly to sneak read at lunchtime and partly to spark conversation. I liked reading and I started to like, and be attracted to, booky people.

I can’t remember why, but Martin Amis was one of the first novelists I read, and ‘Success’ was one of the first books. It may have been a recommendation, but it could just as easily have been the enticing book cover in an Islington bookshop that drew me in. I knew of his father, Kingsley, and had tried and failed to read one of his books, so maybe I felt the son might be more relatable.

I was in my 20s, Martin Amis was just about still in his 20s when he wrote Success, it was set in London, I was in London, some of it was even in Islington … and the main character Gregory was desperate to get a girlfriend. I was a long way from home and whilst I wasn’t lonely, I was often alone, and Success seemed to resonate. I can’t remember a lot about the book, but this isn’t meant to be a review, it’s a homage. What I do remember is feeling quite sophisticated, but not in a pretentious way. It felt grown up to be reading Martin Amis novels.

Success wasn’t a very big book either and so it wasn’t long before I read my second Martin Amis novel – Dead Babies. It was an edgy title and had a cool cover. From what I recall, it was essentially a book about a weekend long party, but what I enjoyed the most was the characters and the back stories. There was sex, drugs and misogyny, although I would never have used that word back then. But what I found utterly fascinating were the characters, experiencing a world far more dangerous, darker and sexier than the world I inhabited. I didn’t want to be there, but I wanted a ticket, it was utterly compelling and I never knew fiction could quite be like that. I also discovered how much I love characterisations in a novel, much more than plot-lines and that has stayed with me to this day.

I then read The Rachel Papers, which had by far the best cover and left the strongest impression on me. The book is essentially about a dickhead called Charles, but it was Rachel I fell in love with, or rather I fell in love with the idea of Rachel. The book left me feeling sad, a peculiar feeling as I never wanted to be in there – Charles was a dickhead, that much I remember – but those characters were immersive, I wanted to be swimming in and around their lives for a lot longer than the book allowed.

To me, these books were a trilogy, although I’m not sure if they were ever formally called that. To me, they told stories of a life lived in close proximity to my own, but also a million miles away, and that perhaps made it all the more fascinating and enticing. I wanted it but I didn’t want to be part of it.

Reading the Martin Amis trilogy ’87-’88 re-launched my love for fiction. I realised that reading fiction didn’t have to mean reading Classics. Reading could be now, it could be here, it could be edgy, dark, funny and contemporary. In fact Amis taught me that reading could be whatever you wanted it to be, it needn’t be safe, nor pre-approved, and that sparked something inside of me that slowly smouldered for years as I browsed north London bookshops on my lunch breaks and rainy Saturdays, forever searching for the next great novel.

I only read two more Martin Amis novels, falling off the Amis wagon after Money and London Fields. I’m not sure why I stopped there, perhaps I had outgrown him, perhaps it was just time to move on. In truth I think he had outgrown me, he became too cerebral, too Will Self before Will Self was in fact himself. Whatever, we diverged, but hearing of his passing this week I am left feeling quite saddened. Amis set me off on a literary journey for which I will be forever grateful. RIP Martin and thank you for my trilogy.

The other day whilst walking down the street with a friend, a woman in a passing car waved frantically at us. I immediately waved back, mirroring her franticness with a matched zeal and passion of my own. And then I realised I didn’t know the person at all, my friend on the other hand did, for it was his neighbour:
“Do you know Sue?”
“No”
“How come you waved?”
“I … don’t … know”
These things can be so damned awkward.

I recently exitted a supermaket weighed down by two very heavy shopping bags, one in each hand, and as I made my way across the busy car park, I tripped against the kerbstone. In order to avoid falling over, I had to run frantically forwards, lurched over in a desperate attempt to not drop my bags of shopping. My heart raced, bottles clinked angrily and I cursed as I could feel my face flushing whilst I staggered by a group of people idly chatting. The group of people stopped chatting mid sentence, unashamedly giggling as I stumbled past like some 1920s Buster Keaton comedy stunt man.

And once I needed the loo before boarding a plane in Helsinki, so I rushed to the nearest Gents just as they announced boarding. I needed to be quick. Unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot to lock the cubicle door and a young Finnish man walked in on me, and for a moment ours eyes met, me sitting down on the toilet with my pants around my ankles, him, stood upright and fully dressed (somehow the height disparity made it so much more shameful). Needless to say I stayed in there until I was sure he had left before I re-entered the departure hall and took my place in the queue for boarding. As I waited, I kept running through that embarrassing scenario over and over again, feverishly berating myself for not locking the bloody door. Oh God the shame and embarrassment, but I tried to pull myself together and told myself at least it was a stranger and I will never have to see that Finnish man again. Except I did, because he was in fact sat next to me on the flight to London which felt to me like it took about a week.

These are all examples of awkward moments many of us suffer from, some of us seemingly more than others. The reactions in my case are always similar – quickened heart beat, flushing of the face, cussing under my breath and a lasting feeling of deep, deep shame.

I would like to avoid such moments, but they seem to be part of me, always have been, and as I get older I seem to become ever more accident prone, raising the already high likelihood of more shameful embarrassments to come.

So, what to do? How about if, instead of cringing, instead of being a mortifyingly shamed victim, what if I celebrated these delightfully awkward moments that make me who I am, moments that make me uniquely me?

Awkward Moments could then become the spice of life rather than shamed secrets. Yes, that’s it …

The key is perhaps to own and embrace such awkwardness. When I realise I’ve fervently waved to a stranger, I just keep on waving, at another different, imaginary car which contains my imaginary friend:
“Do you know Steve?”
“No”
“How come you waved?”
“I was waving at my neighbour Sue? At least I thought it was Sue?”
“Haha! That was my mate Steve you numpty, you should have gone to specsavers!”

And as I run across the supermarket car park chasing my bags, I tell the idle onlookers to move out of the way for I have a ticking time bomb in my bags which I just removed from the supermarket:
“Run! This bomb might go off any second from now!”
*** People scramble to their cars and drive away in rushed panic ***

And perhaps next time a Finnish guy walks in on me mid ablution:
“Come on in! There’s plenty of room in here for two!”
*** Finnish man runs away in panic and can’t believe his bad luck when he realises we are seated together. He ignores me for the entire flight to London which now feels to him like it takes a week ***

Yes, I shall embrace such moments and seize the initiative, leaving them confused instead of me. I shall walk away with my head held high and a smile on my face, leaving them staring blankly, trying desperately to make sense of what just happened to them.

I shall go forth and fumble spectacularly, a skilled and practiced fumbler, embracing each moment, still underlining my own flawed humanity, but this time with a smile on my face.

The other day whilst walking down the street with a friend, a woman in a passing car waved frantically at us. I immediately waved back, mirroring her franticness with a matched zeal and passion of my own. And then I realised I didn’t know the person at all, my friend on the other hand did, for it was his neighbour:
“Do you know Sue?”
“No”
“How come you waved?”
“I … don’t … know”
These things can be so damned awkward.

I recently exitted a supermaket weighed down by two very heavy shopping bags, one in each hand, and as I made my way across the busy car park, I tripped against the kerbstone. In order to avoid falling over, I had to run frantically forwards, lurched over in a desperate attempt to not drop my bags of shopping. My heart raced, bottles clinked angrily and I cursed as I could feel my face flushing whilst I staggered by a group of people idly chatting. The group of people stopped chatting mid sentence, unashamedly giggling as I stumbled past like some 1920s Buster Keaton comedy stunt man.

And once I needed the loo before boarding a plane in Helsinki, so I rushed to the nearest Gents just as they announced boarding. I needed to be quick. Unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot to lock the cubicle door and a young Finnish man walked in on me, and for a moment ours eyes met, me sitting down on the toilet with my pants around my ankles, him, stood upright and fully dressed (somehow the height disparity made it so much more shameful). Needless to say I stayed in there until I was sure he had left before I re-entered the departure hall and took my place in the queue for boarding. As I waited, I kept running through that embarrassing scenario over and over again, feverishly berating myself for not locking the bloody door. Oh God the shame and embarrassment, but I tried to pull myself together and told myself at least it was a stranger and I will never have to see that Finnish man again. Except I did, because he was in fact sat next to me on the flight to London which felt to me like it took about a week.

These are all examples of awkward moments many of us suffer from, some of us seemingly more than others. The reactions in my case are always similar – quickened heart beat, flushing of the face, cussing under my breath and a lasting feeling of deep, deep shame.

I would like to avoid such moments, but they seem to be part of me, always have been, and as I get older I seem to become ever more accident prone, raising the already high likelihood of more shameful embarrassments to come.

So, what to do? How about if, instead of cringing, instead of being a mortifyingly shamed victim, what if I celebrated these delightfully awkward moments that make me who I am, moments that make me uniquely me?

Awkward Moments could then become the spice of life rather than shamed secrets. Yes, that’s it …

The key is perhaps to own and embrace such awkwardness. When I realise I’ve fervently waved to a stranger, I just keep on waving, at another different, imaginary car which contains my imaginary friend:
“Do you know Steve?”
“No”
“How come you waved?”
“I was waving at my neighbour Sue? At least I thought it was Sue?”
“Haha! That was my mate Steve you numpty, you should have gone to specsavers!”

And as I run across the supermarket car park chasing my bags, I tell the idle onlookers to move out of the way for I have a ticking time bomb in my bags which I just removed from the supermarket:
“Run! This bomb might go off any second from now!”
*** People scramble to their cars and drive away in rushed panic ***

And perhaps next time a Finnish guy walks in on me mid ablution:
“Come on in! There’s plenty of room in here for two!”
*** Finnish man runs away in panic and can’t believe his bad luck when he realises we are seated together. He ignores me for the entire flight to London which now feels to him like it takes a week ***

Yes, I shall embrace such moments and seize the initiative, leaving them confused instead of me. I shall walk away with my head held high and a smile on my face, leaving them staring blankly, trying desperately to make sense of what just happened to them.

I shall go forth and fumble spectacularly, a skilled and practiced fumbler, embracing each moment, still underlining my own flawed humanity, but this time with a smile on my face.

I ‘retired’ just over 4 months ago, as in, I resigned from my last job and I haven’t bothered to find a new one. However, right from the outset, I’ve felt uncomfortable labelling my situation as ‘retirement’. I’m not ashamed of calling myself retired, I’m just not sure what it means?

I don’t intend working again. And by that I mean I don’t intend ever taking on another 5 days a week, ‘9 to 5’ job ever again. Nor even 3 to 4 days a week, at least not fixed days. But I might do some ‘work’ for someone if it proved to be of sufficient interest, and if it wasn’t too demanding on my time. So am I even really retired?

I currently do some voluntary work for the Forestry Commission – I help out at a local forest nearby, helping maintain the woodlands, paths and infrastructure – manual tasks like mending fences, fixing bridges, trimming hedgerows, cutting down trees, etc. I work really hard and I absolutely love it, but I only work every other Wednesday, and I do it for free. So does that make me retired? Well, yes, if retirement means not bringing in a salary any more and living off savings, but no, if retirement means stopping ‘working’ altogether.

The perception of retirement versus the reality

I imagined when I pictured this phase of my life, that I might spend a lot of time doing very little, but the irony is I’ve never been busier. I rarely, if ever, watch TV during the day (recent Olympics aside), nor do I lay in bed all day, nor, surprisingly, do I sit in the pub all day. These are the stereotypical kinds of sedentary activities we imagine when we think of retirement, but for me, at least so far, that’s not been the case – my daily average step count is up by about 30% since I ‘retired’, and I spend significantly more hours standing, walking and running than I ever did when I had a desk job.

I’m also much more social, being fairly active in local village affairs – community projects, local council issues and the like. We have lived in our village for almost 19 years and I think I have met and spoken to more local residents in the past four months, than I ever did in the previous 18 1/2 years. When I ‘worked’, I was usually busy from morning until evening, and any down time was limited to the weekend when we did things as a family. Nowadays, however, I have so much more flexibility with my time and my availability that many more opportunies have opened up.

The challenges of retirement

So that’s all good, but this blog isn’t meant to be an idle boast. Stopping working isn’t easy and it takes a lot of time and adjustment. Whilst I now have more free time than a teenager in the summer holidays, I have to plan carefully what I do with it. Whilst in our early thoughts of retirement we imagine we might learn the guitar or take up fishing, the real challenge is to avoid just doing nothing.

Free time is like a blank canvas — you can paint it with the colours of your wildest dreams, or you can just start to doodle until you find your masterpiece. Or, you can also do nothing, and doing nothing takes no effort at all and witout due care and attention, can quickly become the default, and this scares me the most, not least because I know that deep down, I am a bit of a lazy fucker.

Not working for someone else removes the shackles, but also the direction, the focus and the raison d’etre of ‘being’. In a full-time job, you’re valued, your efforts are rewarded and people need you and your services. When you stop working, the phone no longer rings, the emails dry up and hardest of all, people just get by without you. Not being needed any more can fuck with your head. Everyone else moves on, the business you worked for, just moves on, and nothing collapses, nothing stops – you’re just not there any more. And worst of all, for egoists like myself, you’re not missed that much. Essentially you become unimportant, and the danger is that if you don’t actively fill that void with lots of other things, you can just drift.

If you’re not mindful, retirement can become a lonely place, ultimately you’re not needed any more. Ah, loneliness – the silent partner in the retirement dance.

The Joy of Rediscovery

It’s important therefore, to try and use any feelings of ‘loneliness’ as a great motivator. Instead of letting it wash over you, let it push you to connect with others, to do more things, not less. Whether it’s chopping down trees in a forest, joining a book club or starting a weekly poker night, it’s important to find your ‘thing’, and if all else fails, there’s always the company of a good book or a Netflix binge.

Most importantly, doing stuff doesn’t have to mean being productive. I love working in the forest, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong either with just reading a book or bingeing a series on Netflix. And this, I haven’t yet mastered. I still feel terribly guilty if I sit and read during the day, and I’m scared to turn on the TV before evening in case I get hooked on ‘Homes under The Hammer’.

But, fundamentally, what’s wrong with doing that? I stopped working because I had worked long hours for 40 years and at times that work made me feel quite unhappy and unfulfilled. There are financial considerations in making that decision to stop, but I have no reason to feel guilt. I paid all my taxes and today I support myself without any help from the government, so why the heck shouldn’t I stop if that’s what I want? This is however very much a work in progress for I still carry a guilt that’s hard to rationalise and difficult to shake.

Looking forward

I have no doubt that if approached and handled mindfully, retirement can be the time for rediscovery. Remember those hobbies you abandoned in your twenties? Now’s the time to dust them off and give them a second shot – whether it’s painting, gardening, or learning to play the kazoo, retirement is your new playground.

Retirement is a reminder that life is very much part of the journey, not the destination. If done right, it’s about savouring new moments alongside new experiences. It’s about changing direction whenever you get the urge, it’s about exploration and new adventures. Or at least it should be if implemented correctly.

So I don’t always see myself as being retired, but I do struggle with how to label myself (for example on LinkedIn). But whatever I am, wherever I am, I know it feels good and it feels right, as of right now. And if tomorrow it doesn’t feel right, then I still have the freedom to choose another direction, and that’s the real beauty of my situation, and I’m extremely grateful for that.

I ‘retired’ just over 4 months ago, as in, I resigned from my last job and I haven’t bothered to find a new one. However, right from the outset, I’ve felt uncomfortable labelling my situation as ‘retirement’. I’m not ashamed of calling myself retired, I’m just not sure what it means?

I don’t intend working again. And by that I mean I don’t intend ever taking on another 5 days a week, ‘9 to 5’ job ever again. Nor even 3 to 4 days a week, at least not fixed days. But I might do some ‘work’ for someone if it proved to be of sufficient interest, and if it wasn’t too demanding on my time. So am I even really retired?

I currently do some voluntary work for the Forestry Commission – I help out at a local forest nearby, helping maintain the woodlands, paths and infrastructure – manual tasks like mending fences, fixing bridges, trimming hedgerows, cutting down trees, etc. I work really hard and I absolutely love it, but I only work every other Wednesday, and I do it for free. So does that make me retired? Well, yes, if retirement means not bringing in a salary any more and living off savings, but no, if retirement means stopping ‘working’ altogether.

The perception of retirement versus the reality

I imagined when I pictured this phase of my life, that I might spend a lot of time doing very little, but the irony is I’ve never been busier. I rarely, if ever, watch TV during the day (recent Olympics aside), nor do I lay in bed all day, nor, surprisingly, do I sit in the pub all day. These are the stereotypical kinds of sedentary activities we imagine when we think of retirement, but for me, at least so far, that’s not been the case – my daily average step count is up by about 30% since I ‘retired’, and I spend significantly more hours standing, walking and running than I ever did when I had a desk job.

I’m also much more social, being fairly active in local village affairs – community projects, local council issues and the like. We have lived in our village for almost 19 years and I think I have met and spoken to more local residents in the past four months, than I ever did in the previous 18 1/2 years. When I ‘worked’, I was usually busy from morning until evening, and any down time was limited to the weekend when we did things as a family. Nowadays, however, I have so much more flexibility with my time and my availability that many more opportunies have opened up.

The challenges of retirement

So that’s all good, but this blog isn’t meant to be an idle boast. Stopping working isn’t easy and it takes a lot of time and adjustment. Whilst I now have more free time than a teenager in the summer holidays, I have to plan carefully what I do with it. Whilst in our early thoughts of retirement we imagine we might learn the guitar or take up fishing, the real challenge is to avoid just doing nothing.

Free time is like a blank canvas — you can paint it with the colours of your wildest dreams, or you can just start to doodle until you find your masterpiece. Or, you can also do nothing, and doing nothing takes no effort at all and witout due care and attention, can quickly become the default, and this scares me the most, not least because I know that deep down, I am a bit of a lazy fucker.

Not working for someone else removes the shackles, but also the direction, the focus and the raison d’etre of ‘being’. In a full-time job, you’re valued, your efforts are rewarded and people need you and your services. When you stop working, the phone no longer rings, the emails dry up and hardest of all, people just get by without you. Not being needed any more can fuck with your head. Everyone else moves on, the business you worked for, just moves on, and nothing collapses, nothing stops – you’re just not there any more. And worst of all, for egoists like myself, you’re not missed that much. Essentially you become unimportant, and the danger is that if you don’t actively fill that void with lots of other things, you can just drift.

If you’re not mindful, retirement can become a lonely place, ultimately you’re not needed any more. Ah, loneliness – the silent partner in the retirement dance.

The Joy of Rediscovery

It’s important therefore, to try and use any feelings of ‘loneliness’ as a great motivator. Instead of letting it wash over you, let it push you to connect with others, to do more things, not less. Whether it’s chopping down trees in a forest, joining a book club or starting a weekly poker night, it’s important to find your ‘thing’, and if all else fails, there’s always the company of a good book or a Netflix binge.

Most importantly, doing stuff doesn’t have to mean being productive. I love working in the forest, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong either with just reading a book or bingeing a series on Netflix. And this, I haven’t yet mastered. I still feel terribly guilty if I sit and read during the day, and I’m scared to turn on the TV before evening in case I get hooked on ‘Homes under The Hammer’.

But, fundamentally, what’s wrong with doing that? I stopped working because I had worked long hours for 40 years and at times that work made me feel quite unhappy and unfulfilled. There are financial considerations in making that decision to stop, but I have no reason to feel guilt. I paid all my taxes and today I support myself without any help from the government, so why the heck shouldn’t I stop if that’s what I want? This is however very much a work in progress for I still carry a guilt that’s hard to rationalise and difficult to shake.

Looking forward

I have no doubt that if approached and handled mindfully, retirement can be the time for rediscovery. Remember those hobbies you abandoned in your twenties? Now’s the time to dust them off and give them a second shot – whether it’s painting, gardening, or learning to play the kazoo, retirement is your new playground.

Retirement is a reminder that life is very much part of the journey, not the destination. If done right, it’s about savouring new moments alongside new experiences. It’s about changing direction whenever you get the urge, it’s about exploration and new adventures. Or at least it should be if implemented correctly.

So I don’t always see myself as being retired, but I do struggle with how to label myself (for example on LinkedIn). But whatever I am, wherever I am, I know it feels good and it feels right, as of right now. And if tomorrow it doesn’t feel right, then I still have the freedom to choose another direction, and that’s the real beauty of my situation, and I’m extremely grateful for that.

Turning 60 felt like reaching the summit of Mount Middle Age. There’s no more hiding. You can no longer pretend you’re still ‘just the wrong side of 40’. You can’t even say you’re just ‘getting on a bit’.

We remember our Grandma and Granddad being 60 when we were kids. We remember the smell of TCP and mothballs, knitted toilet seat covers, boiled ham salads and hard boiled eggs. Well, that was then, and this is now. I never quite believed I would ever be 60. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I am – the alternative would be horrific (particularly for me).

However, I can’t help feeling disappointed too. Disappointed to have left behind all that youthful energy, that strength, that confidence filled with fresh hopes of what might be, always looking forwards rather than behind.

I catch myself in the mirror quite often this days and it shocks me when I see that belly of an old man. A proper granddad belly is captured raw, in that split moment before I get a chance to suck everything in and pretend otherwise. And even when I do, it’s pointless. In your 40s and 50s breathing in can hide a multitude of sins, but not in your 60s. The elasticity is gone, like a pair of old knickers. Your belly just sags dolefully. It’s given up and there’s just no point pretending any more.

Last week I went for a haircut. For the first time ever, the barber asked me if I wanted my eyebrows trimming. I declined. My hair is thinning on top, although I’m not losing hair per-se, it’s just heading south – to ears, nostrils, my chest, my back, and, soon, my eyebrows. I struggle to see what possible evolutionary advantage that affords me, but it seems to be a common scenario amongst the elderly. That’s what I am – I’m not middle aged any more – I’m elderly.

And maybe that is why I restarted running. Running is something I have always enjoyed ever since I was a child when it came so easily to me. I have run on and off for the past 40 years. However, I never quite achieved the consistency I always yearned for.

We are fortunate enough to have grandchildren now. Our three children are all now well into adulthood, but they’re still terribly young, frustratingly fit, and disgustingly healthy. And that’s when a moment of clarity struck. I realized my grandchildren will soon outrun me. Maybe it was the mirror reflecting a version of me I barely recognized. Whatever it was, I decided I needed to give running another shot.

Embarking on this journey, I was acutely aware of the risks. Injury loomed large in my mind. I envisioned twisted ankles and sore joints. The ignominy of being overtaken by power-walkers also haunted me. To mitigate these fears, I adopted a cautious approach. I started with walking, gradually introducing short bursts of jogging. This method, often recommended for beginners, allows the body to adapt without undue stress. I also appreciated (nay, accepted) that it’s not about speed any more; it’s about consistency.

As weeks turned into months, something quite remarkable happened. The initial soreness has given way to a newfound vitality. My strides have become more confident, my breathing more controlled. I am no longer a hesitant novice, I am a runner once again.

And this transformation isn’t just physical. Running has instilled a sense of accomplishment, a reminder that age is not a barrier, rather a benchmark. Each run is a testament to resilience, proving that it’s never too late to reclaim one’s health and happiness.

And the most unexpected joy has come from running with my kids. Sharing this activity bridges generational gaps, which is no mean feat, and it turns solitary runs into shared adventures. We laugh, we compete, and we bond in ways that only shared endeavour and mutual encouragement can foster. Running together has taught us all patience and understanding – they adjust their pace; I push my limits. It isn’t about who is faster but about being together, step by step.

Rediscovering running at 60 continues to be a journey of self-discovery, resilience, and joy. It’s taught me that age is not a limitation but an invitation to explore new horizons and new ways of doing things. To anyone standing at the crossroads of doubt and desire, I say: take that first step, whatever it may be. The road ahead for us sixty-somethings is challenging, yes, but it’s also filled with unparalleled rewards if we take the time to search them out.

Turning 60 felt like reaching the summit of Mount Middle Age. There’s no more hiding. You can no longer pretend you’re still ‘just the wrong side of 40’. You can’t even say you’re just ‘getting on a bit’.

We remember our Grandma and Granddad being 60 when we were kids. We remember the smell of TCP and mothballs, knitted toilet seat covers, boiled ham salads and hard boiled eggs. Well, that was then, and this is now. I never quite believed I would ever be 60. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I am – the alternative would be horrific (particularly for me).

However, I can’t help feeling disappointed too. Disappointed to have left behind all that youthful energy, that strength, that confidence filled with fresh hopes of what might be, always looking forwards rather than behind.

I catch myself in the mirror quite often this days and it shocks me when I see that belly of an old man. A proper granddad belly is captured raw, in that split moment before I get a chance to suck everything in and pretend otherwise. And even when I do, it’s pointless. In your 40s and 50s breathing in can hide a multitude of sins, but not in your 60s. The elasticity is gone, like a pair of old knickers. Your belly just sags dolefully. It’s given up and there’s just no point pretending any more.

Last week I went for a haircut. For the first time ever, the barber asked me if I wanted my eyebrows trimming. I declined. My hair is thinning on top, although I’m not losing hair per-se, it’s just heading south – to ears, nostrils, my chest, my back, and, soon, my eyebrows. I struggle to see what possible evolutionary advantage that affords me, but it seems to be a common scenario amongst the elderly. That’s what I am – I’m not middle aged any more – I’m elderly.

And maybe that is why I restarted running. Running is something I have always enjoyed ever since I was a child when it came so easily to me. I have run on and off for the past 40 years. However, I never quite achieved the consistency I always yearned for.

We are fortunate enough to have grandchildren now. Our three children are all now well into adulthood, but they’re still terribly young, frustratingly fit, and disgustingly healthy. And that’s when a moment of clarity struck. I realized my grandchildren will soon outrun me. Maybe it was the mirror reflecting a version of me I barely recognized. Whatever it was, I decided I needed to give running another shot.

Embarking on this journey, I was acutely aware of the risks. Injury loomed large in my mind. I envisioned twisted ankles and sore joints. The ignominy of being overtaken by power-walkers also haunted me. To mitigate these fears, I adopted a cautious approach. I started with walking, gradually introducing short bursts of jogging. This method, often recommended for beginners, allows the body to adapt without undue stress. I also appreciated (nay, accepted) that it’s not about speed any more; it’s about consistency.

As weeks turned into months, something quite remarkable happened. The initial soreness has given way to a newfound vitality. My strides have become more confident, my breathing more controlled. I am no longer a hesitant novice, I am a runner once again.

And this transformation isn’t just physical. Running has instilled a sense of accomplishment, a reminder that age is not a barrier, rather a benchmark. Each run is a testament to resilience, proving that it’s never too late to reclaim one’s health and happiness.

And the most unexpected joy has come from running with my kids. Sharing this activity bridges generational gaps, which is no mean feat, and it turns solitary runs into shared adventures. We laugh, we compete, and we bond in ways that only shared endeavour and mutual encouragement can foster. Running together has taught us all patience and understanding – they adjust their pace; I push my limits. It isn’t about who is faster but about being together, step by step.

Rediscovering running at 60 continues to be a journey of self-discovery, resilience, and joy. It’s taught me that age is not a limitation but an invitation to explore new horizons and new ways of doing things. To anyone standing at the crossroads of doubt and desire, I say: take that first step, whatever it may be. The road ahead for us sixty-somethings is challenging, yes, but it’s also filled with unparalleled rewards if we take the time to search them out.

The FIFA Club World Cup is an utter waste of time – an overfed, unwanted, bloated parasite clinging to the dying host of modern football.

Nobody cares. Players don’t want it, fans don’t ask for it, clubs resent it, and yet FIFA’s expanded it to 32 teams? It goes on forever and it’s utter bilge.

Give players a rest, give fans a rest! We might not ask for it but we all need it!

It’s not about competition. It’s about revenue. A soulless cash-grab disguised as “global growth,” flogging tired players through another needless tournament while domestic leagues buckle under the strain.

The Champions League is already the world (European) championship. This ‘thing’ is just noise, plastic prestige with an air-conditioned VIP tent.

Scrap it. Football doesn’t need more fixtures. It needs its soul back. It’s making already big clubs bigger and smaller clubs smaller. Addicted football fans are paying for this out of fixated desperation in the absence of anything else. The divide just gets bigger.

We already have Euros and World Cups, give us at least some break so we can become bored once again and learn how to live outside of the prefabricated world of elite football.

Bring back jumpers for goalposts.

The FIFA Club World Cup is an utter waste of time – an overfed, unwanted, bloated parasite clinging to the dying host of modern football.

Nobody cares. Players don’t want it, fans don’t ask for it, clubs resent it, and yet FIFA’s expanded it to 32 teams? It goes on forever and it’s utter bilge.

Give players a rest, give fans a rest! We might not ask for it but we all need it!

It’s not about competition. It’s about revenue. A soulless cash-grab disguised as “global growth,” flogging tired players through another needless tournament while domestic leagues buckle under the strain.

The Champions League is already the world (European) championship. This ‘thing’ is just noise, plastic prestige with an air-conditioned VIP tent.

Scrap it. Football doesn’t need more fixtures. It needs its soul back. It’s making already big clubs bigger and smaller clubs smaller. Addicted football fans are paying for this out of fixated desperation in the absence of anything else. The divide just gets bigger.

We already have Euros and World Cups, give us at least some break so we can become bored once again and learn how to live outside of the prefabricated world of elite football.

Bring back jumpers for goalposts.

Eighteen years ago today, my dad died. He was just 64. Not old, not ready, not done.

There’s rarely a day that passes where he’s not, in some quiet way, still with me. But on anniversaries like this, the loss surfaces more sharply, not just because I miss him, but because I know how much he would have loved the great-grandchildren he never got to meet. He would’ve adored them and they would have adored him too.

He was a northerner from a very working-class background, and he wore that heritage with silent pride. No pretence. No shortcuts.

He never missed a day’s work in his life as far as I recall. Work wasn’t just something he did, it was a duty, it was who he was – a provider, a grafter, a man who showed up, no matter what.

We used to joke that he was tight with money. Looking back, it was never about stinginess. He was careful. Meticulously, intentionally careful. It turns out that thanks to him, when he passed, Mum had savings that gave her comfort and security. He gave her that whilst bearing the slings and arrows we hurled his way for being a ‘tight wad’. But he received it all with grace and never, ever made a fuss, he just got on with it.

Dad wasn’t flashy and he didn’t chase recognition, but he lived an honourable life and he worked hard for modest comforts. He never expected anything to be handed to him. He didn’t grumble or cut corners. He just got on with life, the way that generation often did.

And I suppose what strikes me today is that we live in a world full of noise, social media outpourings and performances of success, declarations of virtue, curated lives. But my dad? He just was – reliable, kind and steady, in his own undemonstrative way.

I think he’d be proud of what’s grown in his absence. The extended family, the laughter, the lives continued. But I also think he’d shake his head at all the silliness and the fuss. I know he’d tell me to stop being daft and to get on with things.

I miss him but I’m very grateful and very proud of the quiet, honest way he lived his life. He was dignified, yes, that’s the best way to describe Dad.

Eighteen years ago today, my dad died. He was just 64. Not old, not ready, not done.

There’s rarely a day that passes where he’s not, in some quiet way, still with me. But on anniversaries like this, the loss surfaces more sharply, not just because I miss him, but because I know how much he would have loved the great-grandchildren he never got to meet. He would’ve adored them and they would have adored him too.

He was a northerner from a very working-class background, and he wore that heritage with silent pride. No pretence. No shortcuts.

He never missed a day’s work in his life as far as I recall. Work wasn’t just something he did, it was a duty, it was who he was – a provider, a grafter, a man who showed up, no matter what.

We used to joke that he was tight with money. Looking back, it was never about stinginess. He was careful. Meticulously, intentionally careful. It turns out that thanks to him, when he passed, Mum had savings that gave her comfort and security. He gave her that whilst bearing the slings and arrows we hurled his way for being a ‘tight wad’. But he received it all with grace and never, ever made a fuss, he just got on with it.

Dad wasn’t flashy and he didn’t chase recognition, but he lived an honourable life and he worked hard for modest comforts. He never expected anything to be handed to him. He didn’t grumble or cut corners. He just got on with life, the way that generation often did.

And I suppose what strikes me today is that we live in a world full of noise, social media outpourings and performances of success, declarations of virtue, curated lives. But my dad? He just was – reliable, kind and steady, in his own undemonstrative way.

I think he’d be proud of what’s grown in his absence. The extended family, the laughter, the lives continued. But I also think he’d shake his head at all the silliness and the fuss. I know he’d tell me to stop being daft and to get on with things.

I miss him but I’m very grateful and very proud of the quiet, honest way he lived his life. He was dignified, yes, that’s the best way to describe Dad.