Old Lad

A journey through old age

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  • Driving

    My grand daughter is about to take her driving test. It is 60 years since I passed mine and, touch wood, I’ve had an uneventful driving career. It is harder for young people nowadays. They have the hurdle of the theory test ( an example of which I recently had a go at on line, and failed!), long waits for the test itself and then when they do pass, the prohibitive cost of insurance. When I was growing up we were taught road safety at primary school, and. Where we lived there was an inter schools road safety quiz. I was often on the team and so had to study the Highway Code and memorise interesting things like average stopping distances and road signs! As it happens it took me three goes to pass the driving test. This turned out to be the first (and only) exam I ever failed and was a great dent in my ego! Mind you there were extenuating circumstances. I had learned to drive in an instructor’s Vauxhall Viva and in the family Ford Anglia- remember those. My first driving test was in the Instructor’s car but on the day the car had been double booked and he turned up in a VW Beetle. Now if you have ever driven one of these you will know they take some getting used to. Although he thought I could handle the car it was a bit of a disaster and I failed. I think this dented my confidence for the second test.

    caI’ve never been a petrol head and have always regarded cars as a means of getting from A to B rather than a status symbol. I’ve driven in all sorts of countries on what we Brits still insist in calling the “wrong side” of the road. Perhaps the most memorable was the 12 months I worked in Saudi Arabia. It was the 1980s and the Saudi road system was still being developed. I was required to take a Saudi driving test which was an interesting experience. We all assembled in a convoy of 8 cars. The examiner got into the first car and we set off. After about 200 metres he stopped and then got into the second car and the first car went to the back of the convoy. This went on until he had sat with all eight of us! We all passed! Saudi driving always included plentiful use of the horn and a liberal interpretation of lane discipline. Traffic lights were a new innovation and there was a custom at lights to sound your horn when they turned to green so the first car knew it was time to go!

    It’s been interesting watching how driving has changed as cars have developed. For example when I approach a junction I still slow down and change down through the gears – it goes back to the era before servo assisted brakes. Nowadays drivers scream up to the junction and slam on the breaks. This I find unnerving- are they going to stop! It’s become one of my pet hates. The others if you are interested are drivers who only start indicating when they are actually completing the manoeuvres, people who don’t indicate at roundabouts, and those who pull out from a side road and fail to accelerate rapidly enough! And I have a visceral hatred of BMW drivers ( sorry if you are a BMW owner) who become life’s risk takers once they’re behind the wheel.

    Anyway I hope my grand daughter does OK.

  • Diaries

    I have just bought my new diary for 2027. I am still one of those people who prefers to use a paper pocket diary. I know that the rest of the world seems to have gone electronic but deep down I don’t trust electronic calendars. Gadgets can go wrong, phones and tablets can be hacked and apart from losing it a paper diary is pretty reliable. From early childhood I’ve always like to have a diary and it was a regular Christmas stocking filler for me. It was always a small Letts diary with a pencil tucked in the spine ( Letts are still the biggest providers of diaries although they are now owned by Filofax). I used to look forward to the new diary and browsing through the useful information it contained. So I knew about all the various time zones, how to convert pounds and ounces to metric measures, what date Easter was going to be for the next 50 years, public holidays in each country etc. And of course there was always a map of the London tube, so even though I did not go to London until I was 16 I knew the names of most of the tube stations! Occasionally I would be given a Letts diary for Boys which was meant to impart manly things like shirt collar sizes, a list of the main types of nautical knots and how to tie them, and the text of the Scouts promise! There was an equivalent Diary for Girls butI never did find out what that contained!

    I was never a diarist though and made very few entries in these early diaries until I went to the Grammar school and the diary then became a useful way to record important bits of the school timetable – like when to take PE kit. And in a way I am sad I didn’t keep any of these early diaries because I’m sure even a brief entry would be a memory jogger. My late wife always had a pocket paper diary and made regular entries of events on each day although never a detailed journal. She also kept her diaries and I have a carrier bag full of about 25 years worth of them. Occasionally I pick one at random and they do give a detailed snapshot of our life and do provoke memories. For example a single word entry with the name of one of our grandchildren will signify a day of either childcare or picking up from school. “Dancing class” will be a reminder of the taxi of Mum and Dad. There are entries for family meals, birthdays, barbecues, shopping trips, each of which still provokes a memory. There’s an entry in the 2013 diary for my 65th birthday followed by a line of exclamation marks, the significance of which I can only speculate about! Perhaps she thought I was now an Old Lad! She also suffered from Rheumatoid Arthritis which she bore with immense fortitude and in the diaries there is the comment “flare up” which would signify a bad day, but the same day would contain an entry for some activity like childcare which says a lot about her character. I am glad I’ve got the carrier bag.

    I suppose looking back I should have kept a proper journal type diary because living in the latter part of the twentieth century was a time of great change and maybe my children would have been interested – or maybe not. I do like reading famous people’s diaries. My especial favourite has been those written by Alan Bennet the playwright. The late playwright John Mortimer titled his memoir “Clinging to the Wreckage “ which I find intensely amusing. It’s a phrase which at times sums up what it’s like being an Old Lad!

  • Joints

    I’ve always had an interest in joints since I started Medical School in 1966. No, not cannabis which I have never used, but the structure and workings of the human skeleton. I think it was due to the way the curriculum was structured in Liverpool where we spent the first year studying anatomy, and painstakingly dissecting a human body. Part of the materials we needed for the course apart from textbooks was our own skeleton ( or half skeleton to be precise). These came in the form of a wooden box of bones and the tradition was that you sold yours on to the next intake at the end of the year. They were real skeletons as well – which are now frowned upon as we have different attitudes to human remains, and medical students now use plastic models or computer simulations. Because we had such an intensive course we got a good grounding in how muscles and joints worked and the relationships between different parts of the body.

    When I qualified in 1971 I thought I might train for the specialty of Rheumatology because at that time it encompassed a wide range of conditions from rarer but serious ones such as rheumatoid arthritis, to the common ones of back pain, shoulder disorders, tennis elbow etc. Orthopaedics did not interest me because Orthopaedic Surgeons seemed to spend all their time screwing things together or replacing joints – high grade carpentry really! However in the early seventies it became apparent that rheumatology as a specialty was becoming very narrow and largely confined to the treatment of inflammatory joint problems, and I couldn’t see myself spending all my days in clinics with a narrow range of conditions. So I thought general practice might be worth a try, and for somebody with an interest in musculoskeletal conditions it was the right choice. Statistically something like 30% of GP consultations involve this group of conditions and a large proportion are spinal problems. What rapidly became apparent was the rather nihilistic approach to joints, particularly back problems. I had the good fortune to be able to combine being a GP with a couple of sessions a week working alongside one of the old style rheumatologists whose job title was Conultant in Rheumatology and Physical Medicine. He taught me a lot about how to do a detailed examination of joints and also simple manipulation techniques to help with back and neck problems. As most of our practice patients worked in heavy industries there was no shortage of customers! And if you took the trouble to visit workplaces such as the local steelworks or down a coal mine, which I did, it became apparent what a damaging effect the jobs had on the skeleton.

    There was, and still is, a lot of prejudice and cynicism about the problem of chronic back pain. This manifested itself early on in my GP career when all the local GPs were invited to lunch with the General Manager of the local steelworks who proceeded to harangue us about the fact that, in his opinion, we were giving his workers too many sickness certificates for back pain! Now I personally have always found managing back pain an interesting challenge and there are in fact many strategies to help with it other than painkillers, a sick note and an explanation that it’s probably old age! But the prejudice still persists. Only this week the Government is suggesting that people who are disabled by low back pain should receive a lower level of disability benefits than those with other conditions. I suppose they mean “respectable conditions “ such as heart disease or strokes. The effect of chronic pain and restrictions in movement can have significant effects on quality of life and stigmatisation of people with back pain does not help with their self esteem, particularly as in many cases the problem is the result of years of heavy physical work.

    A major problem in this area of medicine is that there has never been a concerted effort to prevent joint problems like there has been in other conditions like cancer, strokes or heart failure. And targets in the Health Service never apply to musculoskeletal problems. So we have to put up with underinvestment and things like a 16 week waiting time for physiotherapist appointments. I am fortunate in that as an Old Lad who now has a back problem I know how to cope with it using a strategy of keeping active, doing a range of tailored exercises, and the wherewithal to be able to afford to pay for private physio advice. But there are many Old Lads ( and Lasses) who’ve been told “there’s not a lot we can do so keep on taking the tablets”. And it’s not fair and not good enough!

  • Chicken in a basket

    Pubs are in the news a lot at the moment- largely stories of pubs closing and the battle to make any profit. I’ve always liked pubs but the pub landscape has changed dramatically since I were a lad, as we say up North. In the 1950s when I grew up, pubs were mysterious places, largely frequented by men and completely off limits to children. I remember a regular summer family treat when my Dad would walk my brother and I to a pub alongside the East Lancashire Road – the highway that connected Manchester with Liverpool. He would leave us sitting on an embankment outside and disappear into the pub, emerging with two bottles of lemonade and two packets of crisps- the sort where the salt came in a small blue wrapper. We then would sit and watch the traffic ( simple pleasures!) while he went back inside for a pint. I didn’t go into a pub until I was in the sixth form at School, and believe it or not that was on a biology field trip. There were only 4 of us in the biology set and the teacher decided we should have a day out to look at Limestone Pavements. We went in his car and at lunchtime he took us into a pub and said we could have half a pint of beer each. I hadn’t much clue what to order but the only beer brand I recognised was Youngers Tartan Bitter. At that point in my life I decided I rather liked beer!

    Going off to Medical School in Liverpool meant unfettered access to pubs. The Students Union boasted a bar with a line of 18 beer pumps with names I still remember, but many of which have nearly all disappeared – Watneys Red Barrel, Skoll Lager, Newcastle Brown, Long Life, Greenhall Whitley. Opposite the Royal Infirmary was a pub aptly named The Royal- a bit rough round the edges but a not uncommon site was the odd medic in a white coat taking a breather ( the pagers worked across the road!) By and large pubs were places for conversation- no music, no fruit machines, no children and food was basically crisps, nuts or that food of the gods – pork scratchings.

    Contrast that with the modern pub scene which is that most establishments have been replaced with what I would call a restaurant that happens to have a bar. Food has taken over. The blame for this I lay at the door of Chicken in a Basket. This what was at the time a rather exotic concept, emerged in the early sixties closely followed by the mysterious Scampi. Landlords kept up with this bandwagon and gradually food became integral to pubs. This has led to several changes which in my mind have contributed to the demise of pubs. Firstly the majority smell of chips, secondly you rarely can sit at the bar, thirdly nearly all the seating is given over to tables set for food, and fourthly you often have to have a reservation! So finding a pub where you can have a quiet reflective pint is becoming difficult. And much as I enjoy chips I do not like the smell of them cooking! And don’t get me started about “Gastropubs”!

    As us Old Lads get to be older lads, we quite like a tranquil pub to while away an hour or two. Fortunately for me a local oasis has arrived. In the town of Cockermouth there was a brewery with a long heritage called Jennings. Sadly about 3 years ago the mighty Carlsberg who had bought it closed it down. But about 18 months ago an enterprising group bought it and it has reopened as a craft brewery. And joy of joys they have opened a tap room. It has an eclectic mix of furnishings, no canned music, no fruit machines, doesn’t serve food but does have pork scratchings! So me and the spaniel have found our happy place. And we have defeated Chicken in a Basket!

  • All are safely gathered in

    I have always had an interest in farming. Surprisingly for one who grew up in a small industrial town in Lancashire – which had 5 working coal mines and 2 cotton mills, we were always close to farms. Urban sprawl from Manchester had not arrived and we were surrounded by farmland – mainly arable and cattle. I was friends with the local farmer’s children and so a lot of my outdoors play in the 1950s was on the farm. The dead hand of Health and Safety had not arrived and so as a nine year old I helped with tasks – feeding the cows, collecting free range eggs from the most unlikely laying places and a great favourite – feeding turnips into a shredding machine to create cattle food! The advice I got was “keep your fingers out of the way”! Harvest time was one of the best times. No combine harvesters then so wheat was cut and formed into sheaves which then were stacked in a wigwam shape for a day before being taken back to the farm to the mighty threshing machine. So at the age of 9 I could handle sheaves of corn.

    The barns which were stacked with bales of corn became an adventure playground. The barn was also a life lesson place where the farmer’s older daughter mesmerised us with tales of animal procreation and the gory details of what happened at the butcher’s! She did briefly strike terror in me when she explained how girls had periods to us little boys. I spent the next few weeks examining my underpants for signs of blood! Each year there would be a harvest festival in the local church when the building would be decorated with produce, sheaves of corn and flowers. As a nod to the local industry there was always a huge piece of coal and a Davy safety lamp plus a bale of cotton.

    When I moved to practice in Cumberland farming was an integral part of the local community, and so we became locked into the seasons – ploughing, planting, lambing, harvesting and it added a rhythm to life. At this time of year – late July and August- it is the season of local agricultural shows, and as our own children grew up we used to regularly visit one or two shows a year. It gave them an insight into farming and they became adept at identifying breeds of sheep. My son used to enjoy the displays of the latest tractors and was often allowed to sit in the cabs. ( Sadly health and safety has killed this off). Country shows are of course THE place for spotting Old Lads! They usually gather by the sheep pens, each with a stick with either an elaborately carved handle or a ram’s horn and pass judgement on the sheep. ( For the uninitiated ewes are “yows “ and rams are “tups”) The standard Old Lads greeting is “ How’s thi fettle “ and the standard reply will be either “ Grand” or “ Nobbut middlin “. Shows are not without their hazards. I was once at Ennerdale show when a farmer leading a prize bull round the ring got knocked over by the beast, fell and dislocated his shoulder. The tannoy made the dreaded announcement if there was a doctor on the field so I felt I should step forward. By then a group of the Old Lads had come on the field to give me helpful advice about how to “put it back”. This is usually not a good idea in an elderly person so I demurred and we called an ambulance.

    A wonderful feature of these shows is of course the Industrial tent where competition takes place for different handcrafts, baking, produce and flower arrangements. Each class is fiercely contested. I did once cause consternation by entering a class for 3 stems of roses and won a second prize. When I went to see the result I could overhear conversations from the locals about who this interloper was. There were always the slightly eccentric classes. This year in the Ennerdale Show there is a class for “ an arrangement of flowers in a wellyboot “ and “ cress grown in a decorated eggshell “! Perhaps it’s time for me to go again. This time however I can mingle with old lads. I’ve even got the stick with a horn handle – a gift after I gave a talk to a local farmers club – so with that and my cap I should look the part!

  • Milestones

    The journey through old age is a series of milestones, each with its own significance. Retirement, loss of a spouse, the day you realise that a low seated sports car is not for you, or the day you realise you have to sit down to put socks on! To me each milestone is interesting in its own right and gives more structure to what it is like to be an Old Lad. When I was younger I occasionally used to muse on what it must be like to be old, and now I’m here it’s not like I thought it would be – more unpredictable. I think it was the great Ken Dodd who, when approaching his eightieth birthday, was asked “What is it like being 80” and gave the answer “I don’t know, I’ve never been 80 before”!

    I’ve just passed my 78th birthday so that’s another milestone, and I have now been diagnosed with an official illness called Spinal Stenosis. For the uninitiated this is due to osteoarthritis affecting the small joints in the lumbar spine plus changes in the discs so that they bulge into the spinal canal. Symptoms can vary but in my case it’s a dull low back pain but quite marked stiffness in the legs. It’s what we in the trade would call a “degenerative condition “ ( wonderful loaded word – degenerative!) No cure but the main thing is to keep active. It’s tiresome rather than disabling but I’ve had to stop playing golf – the back can’t rotate enough – so that’s another milestone. What is interesting is looking back to when I was growing up how different the management of conditions like this were dealt with. For a start it was relatively unusual for men to live beyond the early 70s and arthritis like conditions often led to reduced activity and liberal use of “embrocation” – a particular favourite of the time was one called Fiery Jack! I can still recall the smell! Old people would never have dreamt of going to a gym. I believe our current approach to these conditions with more positivity and encouragement to keep active ( and perhaps not using the term degenerative) is far better. But part of the deal of living to be an Old Lad is to recognise that some activities become less easy and life does change in various subtle ways.

    One thing about milestones is that you cannot predict what the next one will be. Which is all part of the fun. Some will be enjoyable and some will be a pain but it is always an interesting experience! Perhaps I will have an overwhelming urge to have a tattoo- then again I think not! As I’ve said before a sense of humour helps- so mustn’t grumble!

  • Trains

    I am about to go on another train journey. I love trains and railway stations. Before you jump to conclusions I am not a train spotter. You will not find me at the end of platform 4 in Carlisle with my camera and thermos flask. I just like travelling by train. Now that I am an Old Lad I find driving long distances, and long car journeys difficult. I think the love affair with trains started when I was a young child in the Fifties. We lived in a small town in what is now Greater Manchester, and to visit my Grandmother in Cumberland, we took the train to Carlisle and then down the West Coast. It was always an exciting adventure. The 9.45 am train left Manchester Victoria and was always pulled by what to me was a massive steam engine – a child’s dream! The carriages had individual compartments ( remember those) and an added treat was being taken to the dining car for a toasted tea cake ( in those days the dining car was open to second class ticket holders). The train stopped in Preston for about 20 minutes and there was always a frisson of excitement when my Dad, who was a smoker, stepped on to the platform for a cigarette, and my brother and I worried that the train would leave without him! Going over Shap summit a second steam engine was put on the back of the train to help it over the gradient.

    As I grew older it was still possible to travel to lots of places by train until the Beeching vandalism in the mid sixties. After that it was mainly buses and cars although the excuse to travel on a train never went away. In the early sixties I was at a grammar school in Bolton and joy of joys the extensive school grounds were bisected by a railway line. We were of course forbidden to trespass on the line but that did not stop some foolhardy pupils sliding down the embankment, placing a coin on the line and then retrieving it after a train had passed and finding it was twice its normal size!

    When I was working as a GP I found myself at one point in my career having to regularly travel to London for meetings, and joy of joys was able to use the night sleeper from Carlisle to London Euston. At that time the sleeper train left Glasgow and picked sleeping car carriages at various points on the West Coast main line. So this meant I could board a sleeping coach in Carlisle at about 10pm and usually be asleep when it was coupled up. Sleepers always had nice crisply laundered sheets and pillows, and there was a very civilised wake up at about 6.45 when the steward knocked on the door with a pot of tea and a biscuit. It was an efficient way of working because the trip to London only took a day away from my practice. A shower and a full English breakfast at Euston set you up for the day! It’s a great shame the same sleeper service no longer runs from Carlisle – it still runs from Glasgow but I could only board at 1.30am, which rather defeats the object of the exercise.

    So now I have a Senior Rail Card. I know there are lots of grumbles about the efficiency of our rail system but, maybe I have been lucky, but there have been very few instances when my journey hasn’t gone smoothly. So I still have pleasurable anticipation when setting out and the relaxation of watching the countryside slip by – especially pleasurable when the line runs parallel to a motorway and you can imagine the grim horror of motorway driving! And you often meet some interesting people on trains, and, if you are like me an avid eavesdropper, hearing some interesting conversations! My last journey sitting behind a group of 4 ladies from Glasgow travelling to London was particularly memorable! I was quite disappointed I had to change trains at Preston!

    So if you are an Oldie and want to travel in a relaxed way, buy a Senior Rail Card and let the train take the strain.

  • Niceness

    We seem to be becoming a lot less kind and gentle as a nation. Passive aggression and overt aggression seems to be seen everywhere. When I was growing up in the fifties we were taught to be kind and courteous. Yes there were always bullies about but I don’t remember the extreme nastinesses that young people can inflict on each other, particularly on social media. A lot of this character has persisted now that I am an old lad. So I still say please and Thankyou if somebody does something for me – if I am out for a meal, for example, I automatically say Thankyou when a server clears away my plate. It’s just something automatic but it’s often greeted with a look of surprise. I still hold doors open to let a woman pass through and I still try to walk on the outside on a pavement ( keeps the sword arm free!)

    But look closely and see how much aggression is around and almost becoming normalised. Walking around the town I am struck by the language some parents use towards their children. NHS staff are increasingly sworn at and verbally abused. Yes I know it’s frustrating sitting waiting in an A&E department but does the aggression help? Watching the behaviour of some players and fans in the World Cup shows lots of examples of needless violent and aggressive behaviour, which sadly gets copied by junior footballers and their parents! Mass protest nowadays often spills over from being peaceful to outright nasty and hostile behaviour against anybody who does not share your point of view. Is it social media to blame? Or the exaggerated rhetoric used in the media – where words like catastrophic, nightmare, horror show, disaster are used to describe w things that are nothing of the sort. For example heavy rain causing a carnival to be cancelled is not a disaster on the same scale as the earthquake in Venezuela. I was out walking the dog in a local park last week and came across some local council workers collecting litter. They were dressed in all black tee shirts and trousers with baseball caps – a bit like the police. Emblazoned on the back of the tee shirts were the words “ Environmental Crime Unit”. Really? I know litter is annoying and socially not acceptable but there does seem to be a bit of hyperbole at work and to me it’s a bit passive aggressive.

    Given the state of our current political discourse and the way it is stoked by the media, it is difficult to see how we can regain an atmosphere of kindness and niceness towards each other. The late actor Paul Eddington ( star of The Good Life and Yes Minister) was once interviewed and asked what he would like to be remembered for and what he would like as an epitaph. His reply was “ He never did anyone any harm”. That doesn’t seem a bad principle to me.

  • Catastrophe

    So how did you get on with the armageddon which was 3 days of sunny weather last week.? I find myself not only being classed as an Old Lad but a Vulnerable adult. So according to the advice from HM Government I should have been holed up in my house in my string vest with all the curtains closed and with neighbours calling in to give me sips of iced water! The reality (and I speak as one who has lived in Saudi Arabia) was that I adopted the “Lets pretend we are on holiday” strategy and sat out each morning with my coffee and pieces of baclava on the patio. And in any case Oop North we know it wont last and the monsoon will come – which it did.

    Perhaps i look back to childhood with misty eyed memories but we had hot weather from time to time – probably hotter because it was in fahrenheit not centigrade – and it meant bringing out the Start-Rite sandals and khaki shorts. The TV weather forecast did not paint the country in the lurid red of a volcano and we just had the magnetic suns or clouds which occasionally fell off behind the presenter. I suppose the sun’s UV rays were not as strong because of all the air pollution in the part of Industrial Lancashire that I grew up in but I don’t ever remember getting heat stroke. The highlight of the day would be the ice cream van.

    So why do we as a country seem to react so hysterically to what was a few days of heat? My view is its all part of a wider malaise across Government and the public services that “something needs to be done”. And partly that is because of a growth in departments within bodies whose job is to churn out advice whether it is needed or not and thus justify their existence. To a degree I encountered this in my career when I worked within a Health Authority. At that time Health Promotion was a growth industry and Authorities were judged on their “Health Promotion Activities” and chief executives were given brownie points from on high. Let me give you an example. A campaign is devised to get people to brush their teeth more often and look after their dental health. (This was a time when you could actually see an NHS Dentist). Numerous meetings were held, publicity materials devised and someone had an idea to give free toothbrushes to children. Reports were sent to the Regional Health Authority about the campaign and pats on the back were given all round . Did it make any difference? Well we never actually bothered to find out! But it was deemed to prove the value of having a health promotion department. .So the communication was the thing , not the outcome And so it was with our recent “catastrophic Heatwave. Public services and the media piled in. The Met Office invested in more red paint for its charts and screamed “Red Warning”,, Public Health Doctors spoke darkly about how many of us might die, and the BBC news bulletins devoted a large part of their output with the “Phew what a scorcher” stories beloved of journalists.

    But did I really need to be told that (a) it was going to be sunny and so probably hot (b) that I should wear cool clothing, (c) drink more and (d) stay in the shade in the middle of the day! We oldies are not idiots! Meanwhile the sheep in the field up the road stood around in their woolie coats and contentedly munched the grass, Anyway in preparation for the next red warning I’ve taken precautions – bought some more baclava and a bottle of Pimms! , Oh and a bag of Ice Cubes!

  • This mortal Coil

    This week I have reached another milestone in the journey as an Old Lad. I am writing a new will. My current Will is over 30 years old so I decided it was time for a refresh. It’s not a complicated Will – I have 3 children so what earthly possessions I have will be split three ways and I also want to make some charitable bequests. I know you can do DIY wills on line but I thought involving a solicitor was safer. The interesting thing about solicitors is that they conjure up all sorts of “what ifs” largely involving my three children falling out ( improbable). Or dying before me. But it’s been fairly straightforward. The biggest issue though is it’s a point in your life where you are forced to contemplate a future without you. This is difficult to get your head around but not something to dwell on too much. A solicitor I knew once advised that although everybody should write a will it should be then put in a drawer and forgotten about. After all you won’t need it!

    A second milestone in the Old Lad journey occurred two weeks ago when I had my annual MOT at the GP surgery. At the moment I am blessed with what I think is reasonable good health apart from mild hypertension for which I am taking “the tablets”. Also the fact that I am over 75 entitles me to a check up. So a nice health care assistant weighed me, measured me, took my blood pressure and asked me about exercise ( mainly walking and gardening) and how much I drank ( I fibbed a bit!). Various blood tests were done and the good news is that all the important bits seem to be working ok. My blood count is ok and tests for liver, kidney, thyroid function were all normal and I am not pre diabetic. So that was encouraging seeing as I am now in what is termed “snipers alley” – watching friends and acquaintances being picked off by the Grim Reaper and dodging the bullets! The disadvantage of being a medic of course is that we know too much and occasionally I find myself thinking of the myriad diseases that could swoop..

    So what do I do to defend myself against premature mortality. There’s certainly no shortage of advice out there in the media and on social networks like Facebook. The algorithms used by Facebook are very ageist. I get daily suggestions for walking aids, things to help me put my socks on, exercises to do in a chair (!) and regular advice about a thing called Pure Cremation as well as discreet posts about incontinence products! Basically I have a simple regime. A boiled egg each day for breakfast, an omega3 fish oil capsule and a vitamin D pill. Recently I’ve added in beetroot extract because there is some evidence that it can boost circulation. I home monitor my blood pressure, eat sensibly and walk at least 6000 steps a day. And I have a wee dram before bedtime. And that’s it.

    Oh and aim to have a laugh every day. It’s all in the lap of the gods really. But at least I have a will and my MOT test allows me a licence to go on for another year!