Dear Philippa,

I first started thinking about retirement in the early 70s, being an enthusiastic forward planner, when I decided that I would like to move to rural North Yorkshire not far from where I grew up. The only turd in the water supply of this pipe dream was that the climatologists of the day were with great confidence forecasting an imminent ice age, when the Plain of York would become an arctic tundra and polar bears would roam the streets of Pickering and all because I had been using the wrong type of deodorant for men and had a spare fridge for my white Burgundy. Now, after thirty years of armpits smelling like a dead badger and drinking tepid wine, I have turned things round; the boffins are now predicting, with the same certainty, that my neighbours will be cultivating vines (again), malaria will be endemic (again), and North African insects will make life uncomfortable. Perhaps I overdid the self-denial in the 70s. But so far I am enjoying the harsh winters for which I yearned all those years ago.

It is often advised by experts that , when retiring one should not make major life-style changes such as moving from London to the rural North as this can lead to loneliness, isolation, accelarated aging, psychosis and varicose veins. I have not found this to be so. North Yorkshire is vast, the largest English county, but home to fewer than 600,000 people, whereas London is, well London. There is no Groucho Club here, no Notting Hill Gate, but the social life is less narrow than I had been used to, and less competitive. I mix with farmers, brewers, soldiers and even an economist and a lawyer, whereas before I mixed with, well, publishers. And here, where there is an umcomplicated attitude to drinking, there is a wine club that holds monthly tastings at which spitting is forbidden, and conveniently located opposite my home there is a pub where every Thursday night is pie night where we buckle to with honest enjoyment.

This hints at another benefit of retirement – the freedom to drink wine on a school night without worrying about work tomorrow. Whilst it is true that there are many young people overdoing it in the streets at night and making a mess of their suits, the real hooligans, and there is a vast army of them, are concealed behind their front doors steadily working their way through cases of whatever is on offer at Tesco this month (and retirement gives you time to monitor such things) while watching re-runs of The Antiques Roadshow. All too soon, I fear, officials from the Council will be bursting into the homes of the grey voters armed with warrants, breathalysers and ASBOs. But not yet, not here.

Regards

Howard