I know that I am old school but, for me, watching football should take place at three pm on a Saturday afternoon not at midday or early evening to satisfy the demands of the lazy armchair spectators whose major effort will be in manipulating the remote control. So, Saturday morning, too early for comfort, I found myself rushing down to the train station to catch the misery line to the hallowed Upton Park for West Ham’s Premier League match due to be televised at 12.45, so no time to eat my lucky burger before kick-off. Indeed none of my pre-match superstitions are appropriate at such an early hour.

Racing along the road, as fast as my legs would carry me, as I turned the corner I noticed that the pelican crossing lights were just about to turn in my favour, thanks to a Dad and his two young sons waiting on the opposite kerb. Taking my opportunity I stepped off the pavement  and immediately went into one of those typical cartoon pratfalls. As I lost balance, head and shoulders extended beyond my centre of gravity, my legs started to speed up, as if to realign my lower body with my thrusting upper torso. The attempt was futile and my face started to head towards the Tarmac at great speed. I suppose I should congratulate myself over the fact that I managed to reach the crown of the road before finally succumbing to gravity and hitting the deck pretty hard.

Two things assailed my brain as I lay spread-eagled on the road. My first was to query whether my false hip had survived the mishap intact. The second was to wonder whether the wrist that I had used as a buffer against my fall was still in one piece.

These concerns were swept away by the comments of the Dad as he crossed to the other side. Speaking to his young boys I heard him say,

“Right lads, you wait on the pavement whilst I help this old gentleman up.”

What were the chances, I thought, that two of us could have fallen on the same crossing. I pulled myself up and looked around to see if I could help the old gentleman myself. Strangely I seemed to be the only person prone on the road and the Dad was heading in my direction. Swallowing my pride I took his hand and got up off the floor and then scurried away from the scene of the incident. A quick pat down confirmed that nothing had been broken, dislocated or torn and thanking my helper I continued on my journey.

Only later in the day, following a game characterised by the three points won above everything else, I concluded that wearing a claret and blue beanie and tripping over in the road can definitely give the impression of a man many years older than my own personal self-image. The solution is simple – ditch the beanie and catch a later train.

It was exactly two years ago that we were in Australia for the number one son’s wedding. Having made the momentous trip, it would have been foolish not to take in the spectacular Great Barrier Reef and so it was that on Valentines Day we found ourselves in a five-star hotel with an excursion booked to one of the most romantic islands around the reef in a glass-bottomed boat taking us to see the most amazing array of sea creatures and reef formations this world has to offer. A candle-lit dinner for two in the luxury of our hotel suite and a breathtaking view over the bay provided the most romantic setting and the prospect of more romantic adventures in the offing. What more could a girl ask for? Surely I must have built up enough Valentines brownie points to last a decade!

Imagine my surprise therefore when, a couple of days before this year’s ‘romantic relationship’ repast, I am being asked a range of tangential questions about the forthcoming weekend:-

“Do you think I should get my hair done before the weekend?”

“I bet all the restaurants are going to be packed this weekend, don’t you?”

“I think I might pop to the shops and buy myself a new dress. What do you think?”

“Don’t forget to fill your car up with petrol before the weekend.”

“Have you seen the price of flowers at the moment? It’s scandalous! Anyone buying flowers at this time of year needs their bumps felt!”

It took longer than normal for the penny to drop. Let’s face it I thought that particular box had been time-locked for at least another couple of years. Slowly as the reality dawned I realised that my options were limited to two only:

Option One – Pretend I hadn’t noticed the hints and put up with an icy atmosphere for  three weeks, maybe four. And stay away from sharp objects to be on the safe side.

Option Two – Muster up all of my very limited culinary skills and imagination to recreate the atmosphere of two years ago. All I need is a shoal of rainbow fish and a Michelin Star.

Each option fills me with dread! In either case I can see bloodshed on the carpet, figuratively or realistically given my prowess with the carving knife!

Tonight I realise that my guardian angel is still working for me, although I would prefer it to act quicker to prevent my three sleepless nights and three days of turmoil. Tonight my special Valentine comes in from work to announce that she’s been called in for a shift on the 14th. She hopes it won’t spoil anything, and anyway we don’t have  society dictating to us when we should be romantic do we?

I agree and give the extra shift my blessing – after all we can enjoy ourselves when all of the rest of these New Romantics have gone back to their Eastenders!

At the last minute a Valentines Day Massacre is averted.

In theory, going into retirement is a journey towards an easier life – a period where you can do more of what you want to do and less of what you have to do.

The reality is somewhat different!

I’m sure that it is with the best of intentions that family and friends work ceaselessly to ensure that time does not weigh too heavily on my hands. Suddenly there is an urgent need for a pocket diary and wall calendar to maintain a note of all of my commitments.

Let me give you an example of a typical week:

Monday – Collect granddaughter from school and take her for dentist appointment. A simple task if you ignore the need to encourage said six-year old granddaughter to open her mouth, even a tiny bit, to enable the dentist to make some semblance of an examination. Thereafter, to explain why she only received two shiny stickers for her good behaviour when her sister had gained three previously.

Tuesday – Drop a parcel of clothes to the charity shop. At the shop the Charity Shop supervisor is understaffed today and as such this mere ‘drop’ turns into a full-scale sort of the goods into the relevant departments, price-matching with similar items, labelling the products and placing them on the shelves. Two hours later I emerge from the shop, tired, sweaty and still waiting for the warm afterglow that is supposed to come on the back of altruism.

Wednesday – Go swimming with grandchildren. Getting three lively under sevens out of their day clothes and into their costumes is a bit like herding earthworms! Once in the pool, things go relatively smoothly until there is a dispute over whose turn it is to use a particular float, who gets to jump in next and why one should be excused the use of the goggles. Getting out, showered and re-dressed is a test of patience and ingenuity when it becomes clear that the six-year old has managed to squeeze into the three year old’s trousers, but the opposite arrangement seems too dangerous to consider. ‘Tired and happy’ is a phrase that springs to mind. The kids are tired from their exertions, I’m happy it’s all over for another week!

Thursday – Load elderly relatives (I’m ‘mature’ – these relatives are ‘elderly’) into my car along with zimmer frame,   wheelchair, lotions and potions and, not forgetting the obligatory sandwiches and Cornish Pasties for the 25 miles trip to visit other elderly relatives. Unloading the car and helping everyone indoors is challenging and psychologically daunting with the knowledge that I have to do it all again in reverse in two hours. The journey home is a cacophony of snoring and dribbling and some other, more basic sounds emanating from my travel companions.

Friday – Can I take a look at a letter from HMRC received by one of my old client So? It’s not an advice issue, it’s a translation of official mumbo-jumbo and I feel that this man needs a bit of support. My question in hindsight is, why, as I’m doing the favour, is it me that has offered to do journey? Friday traffic is horrendous, as usual, and I get back an hour late for dinner and have to negotiate the Cold War that ensued as a result.

Saturday Morning – I enjoy a cup of coffee in bed, one of my life’s luxuries when I hear a voice from downstairs,

‘Darling, Sue is hear from next door and she was just wondering if you could……..’

My mind slowly grew to boiling point and a one word answer formed:

‘Nooooooo ‘

It was a couple of days before Christmas and I popped into my surgery for my regular blood pressure test.

The waiting room was heaving with a motley crew of coughing, sneezing and wheezing humanity.

‘You know that we are doing the Flu jab at the moment and at your age, Mr Ward, we strongly recommend that you have it’

Instantly I was offended by this approach- let’s be fair, I had just walked into this building without a hint of a cold, unlike the many ‘wheezers’ half my age who were demanding GP’s valuable time. My age, indeed!

However, the rational part of my brain could see the benefits of the suggestion and within minutes I was sitting in a tiny cubicle with my left shirt sleeve rolled up in anticipation of my jab. Suddenly what I had seen as a medical clinic transformed in front of my eyes and in an instant turned into a medical version of a Tesco Express.

My nurse rushed into my cubicle with the smile of a mobile phone salesperson  exuding delight in her ‘buy one, get one free’ offering.

‘I’ve just checked the computer and I see that you qualify for the offer of Pneumonia Injection, and I can do it for you now, if you like?’

And the ‘killer close’ was the fact that, unlike the Flu jab, which needs to be renewed every year, the Pneumonia injection is a once in a lifetime offer – a benefit for life! I was sold and proceeded to roll up my right shirt sleeve.

Ten minutes later I walked through my front door a new man. I felt like a man doing his bit to keep NHS costs down. I felt like a man staying one jump ahead of those pesky bugs. I felt like a man with a lifetime of immunity. I felt like a man with two very sore arms. The wife would have to make the tea for the next few days, that was certain!

Christmas Day was a joy, as was Boxing Day but we then had another phoney Boxing Day on the Monday and I think it was this unusual event that disturbed my body’s equilibrium. By that evening I was full of a hacking cough and a head full of cold. My eyes were streaming along with my nose whilst my ears constantly switched between total deafness to something akin to a full orchestra playing in my eustacian tubes! My ability to breathe, my ability to sleep properly and my ability to function at any level seeped away from me. Indeed on a couple of occasions I was convinced that my inability to breathe at night was more to do with the pillow my wife was holding over my face than the phlegm drowning my airways. Her mitigation was that, on the rare moments that I was able to fall asleep, my snoring was like having a chainsaw carving up the bed beside her! I’m not entirely sure how strong a defence this would be in a court of law, if I’m honest but it never got tested.

A full six weeks from my previous visit and I found myself back in my GP’s surgery, but This time I was amongst the coughers, sneezers and wheezers. My temperature was up, along with my bile and my mucus. When I finally got in front of my doctor I couldn’t help but let rip about how I had been let down by the system, how I had been encouraged to imagine that I was now immune to all forms of infirmity, and here I stood a wreck of a germ-ridden individual!

Suddenly I was no longer in the NHS environment, nor even  Tesco Express, but in a back street second-hand car dealers, or the call centre for National Rail following a spate of train cancellations because of the wrong leaves, wrong colour snow or the wrong trajectory of the sun.

Apparently, my miracle medication relied upon a very specific set of circumstances to be viable. I have never before seen a GP invoke ‘caveat emptor’ and the rest of his explanation could have been delivered by Arthur Daly as easily in his enormous sheepskin coat:

‘See, yer problem, my son, is that you caught last year’s flu but we covered you for this year’s  version. Different animal, entirely, son. It’s like treating a cat with horse medicine. Mind you, look on the bright side: the way your body works, you should be OK next year! Then, of course, you’ve picked up viral bronchitis; different again from yer pneumonia virus. With the injection you had, it was like we gave you an anorak when what you needed was a facemask. Who knew? What can I say? My best advice to you, mate, is don’t bother with a Lottery ticket this week. You will get last week’s numbers, knowing your luck!’