About retirement – dispatches from the front line – Part 21

Dear Philippa,

With retirement come afflictions, minor if you’re lucky, but multiple if not; troubles come not single spies but in battalions. I have become a poor sleeper. I get off OK, but I usually wake up around four or five, ready to go. I take this as an opportunity to read cheap fiction for a few hours, and to drink coffee which pretty much guarantees that I don’t nod off again before the dog kicks off at about seven. I enjoy this quiet time, but it isn’t right; it means I’m ready for lunch by ten thirty and I need a nap in the afternoon. I am joined napping by the dog who now pretty much insists on it. This all sounds idyllic I expect, peace to read uninterrupted, no pressure of work, and freedom to snooze after lunch. But the afternoon refresher feels wrong, not a manly thing somehow. Then I was introduced to Nytol, an over-the-counter sleep medication, by my daughter. I have never had much faith in over-the-counter pills believing that anything really effective is sure to be prescription-only because of alarming side-effects to which we are sternly and wisely alerted. Prescription sleeping medicines carry the helpful warning “may cause drowsiness”.My favourite instruction was “take four times daily after meals”. Four meals a day? Who are these people? But this Nytol is a cracker and with an interesting side-effect – it induces dreams. For several consecutive nights I became a professional tennis player, which is odd as I have never played or particularly admired those who excel at it. But I had an exciting time and I was showing great promise, cheered on by unhinged fans and all the rest of it, until I was knocked out in the semis by Lew Hoad, denying me the pleasure of meeting the Duchess of Kent and Cliff Richard.

There have been episodes of gout. My GP, a much younger man, seemed unwilling to name the diagnosis until I had done so myself, out of kindness I suppose, and generously did not dispute my assertion that the symptoms were unconnected to my enthusiastic consumption of Shiraz but agreed that I might be wise to switch, just in case, to Merlot. Why do people snigger when you mention gout? It is extremely painful. If you confess to migraine peoples’ faces crumple sympathetically, or sciatica say. It’s a bit like piles in this respect. I remember to my shame my amusement years ago when a much older colleague described to me the misery of haemorrhoids. He confided that he found relief only in the use of apple cider vinegar, though whether he drank it or used it as some kind of wash he never said. I was too shy to ask, which means that if ever I am so afflicted I shall have to experiment, an unsettling prospect.

Then there is forgetfulness. Only the other day I couldn’t for the life of me recall the name of Terry Wogan, though this could have been a lively brain operating a protective mechanism. I have after all no difficulty coming up with the name of Claudia Schiffer. A friend once described an hilarious episode at a London restaurant when an outraged Francis Bacon called the police to report the theft of his car, discovered when he left after a “good lunch”, only to recall after they arrived that he had in fact travelled by taxi in anticipation “a few”. This has never happened to me, but I have sometimes searched the car park, with mounting despair, for my green Mini on days when I had been using my wife’s white John Cooper Works (a rare treat) which I had repeatedly walked past. But this is a small price to pay for the inability to recall Terry Wogan.

I have to say I’m lucky, with few complaints and none of them. I have given up tennis and now anticipate a night out dancing with the Dagenham Girl Pipers, once the gout clears up. Talk about night terrors.

Best wishes

Howard