Speech Mark

The snap of a latex glove and the ominous phrase “now you’re over forty” will resonate with any man who has submitted to a doctor’s examination at that stage in their life. Mine occurred at a company medical, a biennial event that involved me pretending that I didn’t drink too much and the GP pretending to believe me. Prostate checked and composure recovered we addressed the other reoccurring elephant in the room. “Your extra weight is all around your stomach which is the worst place for it”, he would say, “and it’s much easier to shift that weight at forty than it will be at fifty”. His own failure in this regard merely underlined his point, I suppose. I am now in the position to put his supposition to the test. I shifted much of that extra timber in my forties but will now have to do the same in my fifties , having put it all back on plus a little extra for good measure. For it is true to say that I am currently heavier than I have ever been in my life right now, tip...

How the hell did I get here? Fifty! It’s such a big and scary number, especially when I consider myself to be no more than 35. But there’s no denying that I am, without question, fifty; all the birthday cards on my doormat displaying that squalid number confirm the fact that I’m now a quinquagenarian and entitled to join Saga. I am five years from being able to buy a designated retirement home and ten away from getting my free bus pass. The only thing that isn’t getting any closer is my statutory retirement age which seems to be as far as away as ever. At least Her Majesty’s Government is doing its best to reassure me that I’m not yet past it. Trying to see where all the time went I woke up on my fiftieth birthday in a hotel room on a beautiful island with a glorious sea and mountain view out of the window. However, a relaxed day amongst the bars and restaurants of charming Corfu Town was not what I had chosen to do. Instead I got up at 5.30am and embarked upon a nine-hou...