Mr Adams was our milkman when I was a child. I didn’t really know him. He’d be up and out early, braving all weathers, dropping off bottles all around our council estate while most of us, including me, were still warmly tucked away in bed. Not that I appreciated it in any way at the time. I never liked milk. I later discovered that I have an intolerance to it. I just remember a kind of grey, mysterious figure, with no associated personality or character, who would knock on our door one evening every week to collect his money. At some point, probably during my early teens, he retired at the age of 65. The following day, he died.
“Poor man!” I’d hear. “What a waste!” they said. “Never had a chance to enjoy his retirement after working so hard.” This non-entity (or so he was to me at the time) has managed to unwittingly wrestle his way into the hierarchy of my childhood memories, almost 50 years after his passing, and has become an inspiration for me to maintain my own health and fitness.
I suppose it was good for the country. He’d worked hard all his life, paid his taxes and National Insurance contributions, and was taken from us before he’d had chance to claim back his hard-earned pension. Wouldn’t it be great for our economy if everyone were to show so much consideration and magnanimity! Give, give, give and no take. The Chancellor at the time would have been rubbing his hands.
We are all important only to ourselves and to those who are a part of our life’s tapestry. Beyond that, sadly, we are just statistics. Those who don’t know you (virtually the whole world) cannot miss you when you are gone. And when we are gone, some of us will have put more into the economy than others, and some will have taken more from the economy than others. As I write this, I have become conscious of the thousands of pounds worth of platinum coils inserted into my head by our wonderful National Health Service and the cost of the treatment and expertise that has gone into keeping me alive. I also know that I have saved our emergency services much more during the course of my day job. When all things are considered, the personal input/output figures are actually unquantifiable.
During the coronavirus lockdown, I managed to reach the age of 60. But it’s impossible for me to have a midlife crisis. Many middle-aged men, fearing the onslaught of degenerative health conditions, baldness, weight-gain and loss of sex appeal, seek to deny the inevitable ageing process by indulging themselves in a flash car, trendy clothes or a comb-over. I would never say that I am above this or better than this. But my life has led me along a different path to many.
At an age when many men are going through a stubborn refusal to embrace the benefits of their distinguished appearance and personae, I was nearly wiped out from the face of the earth by a brain haemorrhage, almost never to be given the opportunity to celebrate the later years that are often not appreciated by those who amble into old age with no hiccups. While I was lying in a coma, my family asked if I was likely to be brain damaged. The response was, “Let’s just see if he makes it through the night.” What a turnaround!
I made an almost miraculous recovery (I don’t really believe in miracles, by the way – just cause and effect), and I am fitter and healthier than most people of my age. Early retirement will not be for me, as much as I wish that it was. It is beyond my financial means. Some time ago, my projected retirement age of 65 was adjusted to 66. Then, the goalposts were deviously shifted along a little by an extra four months. So, unless things change, I will qualify for the state pension in November 2026. I’ll have 20 years of civil service pension and a private pension to give me a reasonable quality of life.
I’m still expecting to be fit, healthy and very active at that time. Longevity and good health is in my genes. I’m working very hard on physical fitness. If it weren’t for the coronavirus, I’d still be Lindy Hop dancing, too. I’m planning to be stronger than I’ve ever been once I reach 70. I’m working on muscular strength at the gym and running as much as possible (I’m struggling with a hamstring injury at the moment but I’ll be back soon). I love my plant-based diet which is keeping the internal workings of my body healthy (I’ll never need a milkman again). Once I reach my retirement age, I’m hoping, and expecting, to have another 30 good quality years of life in me. I’ve worked hard and conscientiously all of my life, I’ve never tried to do anything that would have placed financial strain on the system, and now…
I want my money back!
I’m hoping to be fit enough to continue dancing, running, travelling and generally enjoying my new-found freedom. I plan to do more writing too, and publish more books during my retirement, so it’s possible that I will still be contributing financially until the very end. I have a lot to take from life yet, but also a lot to give. Advances in medical science and technology are likely to further improve our chances of living much longer. I suppose it won’t be helpful for the environment, but survival is our most basic instinct, and I doubt that there are too many of us, if we’re really honest with ourselves, who would be prepared to nobly die early in order to reduce our carbon footprint.
But it would be in the Government’s interests that I die somewhere between now and November 2026, or not too far beyond that date, just like Mr Adams, who could never have foreseen the world as it is now. But he could also never have foreseen the fact that he would have been remembered for so long by an insignificant little boy on the council estate that he served, and that, potentially, he could be immortalised by a blog nearly 50 years after his death – a symbol to all those hard and conscientious workers who never got their money back.
If you want to find out more about my book, I’M NEVER ILL (A journey through brain surgery and beyond…), which has nothing to do with Mr Adams, visit my website http://www.markdpritchard.com
MARK D PRITCHARD writes... 