Health – Page 9 – Middle Age Fanclub

Fighting the flab – my battle with ‘Dad bod’!

So many temptations with which to add to that dad bod!

As a young man I never dreamed I’d have any kind of problem with ‘body image’. I’d grown up a skinny kid, partly down to health problems and partly down to being a fussy eater who was indulged by a somewhat doting mother. I was active and sporty, meaning that I struggled to gain weight as I was always on the move. Therefore, as the possessor of barely any noticeable muscle at all this led to sometimes merciless name-calling and cruel comments about my size. They’d call it bullying nowadays, but at my rough comprehensive school it was just a way of life. Some people would exploit any weakness that they detected and unfortunately, my lack of bulk and legs that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a passing flamingo, were often a target, especially as I got older and everybody else filled out. As I got older and stayed relatively small those that grew to be more of an adult size would find fun in pushing me around. Still though, it didn’t particularly bother me and I was never unable to function as a result of it.

However, it must have been something that sat there, dormant, waiting for its chance as in adult life it became a problem that would hold me back. Not in a terribly debilitating way, but in a self-conscious sort of way. I have a seven inch scar down my chest which stopped me from removing my shirt on sunny days. I’m hardly well built either, which made t-shirts my friends at all times! As previously referred to, I also have legs that would look better on certain types of wildlife, meaning that shorts were often in, well, short supply I suppose.

The notion of ‘body image’ however, seems to be a relatively recent thing and at the risk of sounding like my dad, they didn’t have it when I was younger. I was always conscious of my size or of my body, but it was just something else to deal with. I never thought to talk to anyone about it, let alone write anything down. Until I was around 15 I was only just over 5ft in height as well, so bodywise I had literally nothing going for me save for a Hollywood smile and an earlier than most bumfluff ‘tache!

For a short while I joined a gym in the hope that lifting weights and exercising in different ways would help me to bulk up. It didn’t and more to the point it bored me and ended with me feeling even more self conscious. After a while I just accepted what I was and eventually (and I really mean eventually) when girls started taking an interest I began to feel a little more confident in myself. I could make people laugh and hold the interest of at least some girls; I didn’t feel the need to lift heavy weights, wear vests and sweat like a stallion. But I still didn’t like my body. The skinny legs, the stick-like arms, the scar on the chest…I didn’t particularly feel manly. Add to this the fact that one side of my ribs juts out at the bottom as a result of not being put back together properly after my heart operation – surgery wasn’t as precise a science in the 70s – and you begin to feel like you should have been picked up by the circus at some point.

University helped me to love myself a little bit more (not like that; stop sniggering). Maybe it was being away from some of the same people I’d been around for years who’d possibly gotten used to their own clever banter and didn’t feel that it could possibly be hurtful. My dad, for instance, was forever mocking my legs – if I played football in shorts he’d tell me to put my legs away because – and I quote – ‘there’s a spuggy up there feeding young ‘uns. She’ll think there’s two worms down here.’ Classic. No, really, hilarious. Especially when it’s repeated three or four times a week. Maybe it was the sudden independence that somehow boosted my confidence or maybe it was the fact that I was now around a foot taller and at least felt I finally had something going for me. Whatever it was, those three years made me feel a lot better about myself in terms of my body. I simply wasn’t mocked anymore and as a result I felt at least a little bit of confidence.

The issue of body confidence has never gone away though. And annoyingly, with the onset of middle age it feels like it’s getting worse. I think the young people call it a dad bod, but whatever it is, it’s not particularly comfortable.

Now, I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of mess. But moving into my forties, and speeding towards my fifties has definitely brought plenty of unexpected body issues to go alongside the ones that I’ve carried around since my teens. Actually they’re more irritations than issues, but still, they bother me enough to actually spend time thinking about them. And that’s quite a surprise to me.

The biggest body irritant has to be my belly. I’ve never been in possession of a six-pack; not a proper one, anyway. In my early twenties, when I played football and ran a lot more often there was a lot less flab and some definite abs and even now I don’t exactly look like I might be 7 months pregnant. But there is a belly. And, try as I might to reason with myself about age, lifestyle and the stress of work, it really bothers me. Having spent most of my life worrying about being underweight I never thought I’d have a belly, especially as I’m still probably underweight! But it’s definitely there. And because it’s so unexpected I think I overplay its importance and worry about it far more than is healthy or even reasonable.

Nowadays, for the style conscious middle aged man, having a belly is a bit of problem whether it bothers you or not. You see, clothes are a lot closer fitting. Everything you look at is available in ‘slim fit’ and some even in ‘skinny’ fit. Style wise this is great. I can remember the 80s and 90s when clothes would literally hang off me and so now, when things actually fit properly, it’s much better. But things fit everywhere. So any slim fitting t-shirts that I might buy are sure to hug. But they can’t hug my belly. Not enough to actually hug it away. And so I find myself feeling self conscious a lot more. About four months ago my wife bought me an expensive compression top which I could wear while out running, but when I put it on I was appalled. It’s incredibly tight fitting, but despite its quality it couldn’t contain my belly and looking at myself in the mirror, I felt ridiculous. Needless to say it went back in the wardrobe and it’s only appeared in public in the last week or so.

In truth, I find that I try to hold my stomach in these days. On holiday, or if we go swimming it’s a conscious decision. While I have no real problem with the scar on my chest anymore, I now feel self conscious about a paunch that my wife assures me isn’t really there. I find myself walking around just that little bit more tense and sucking in the belly. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not kidding myself that women (or men, the cheeky devils) may still cast a glance in my direction. But I do try to hold my belly in when I remember. I don’t want to feel like I’m being judged and I don’t want to feel like my nearest and dearest are quietly thinking, ‘he’s let himself go’.

On the belly front I’ve tried various things to help out. Sit ups, weights, running, walking, cutting back on certain foods like chocolate, crisps and beer, but I simply don’t seem to have the long term will power to make a difference. When I was exercising regularly and for a more significant and sustained amount of time it did make a difference and you could actually see the beginnings of a six-pack. But nobody’s impressed by a two-pack, least of all because actually divulging such information makes it sound like all you’re actually doing is informing them that you’ve got testicles. Even something as simple as a mere glance at my name tells you that there’s a fair chance I’ve got them anyway. And so, the exercise and the food sacrifice went south…a little bit like my belly.

With body image in mind, I’m currently trying to be much more disciplined about what I eat and drink. As lots of you will be aware I had a health scare last year and while I wouldn’t say it had a profound effect, it did make me think about my choices in terms of food and exercise. I’ve never been a big drinker, but for the last 6 months or so I’ve managed to restrict beer consumption to at the most 3 times a week. And even then it’s very rare that I’ll ever have more than one drink.

I’ve almost completely cut out crisps, which have always been my nemesis in terms of fighting the flab. Crisps have always had a heroin-like pull on me and I could eat them all day and still not have had enough. Even the thought of them makes me kind of wistful! The box of chocolate biscuits that used to reside in my desk draw at work has also now gone and has been replaced by two bananas a day. And even as I type I’m munching on my most recent dietary addition – a small daily tub containing pumpkin seeds, cashews and macadamia nuts.

But am I only kidding myself? Despite my size I’ve always loved my food and I live in constant fear of some kind of relapse. Walking around Asda on a Saturday morning can feel like some kind of purgatory as I try to avoid aisle after aisle of delicious fatty rollbacks! In fact, I can’t even walk down the biscuit or crisp aisles anymore, which I suppose is some display of discipline, however sad it might seem. Such is the hold that body image can have though. And it must be the same for thousands of middle aged men. We’re at a certain age; our bodies simply can’t exercise enough anymore and years and years of sampling various foods has led to this – a belly that suggests that you might just be about to go into labour.

And then there’s man boobs, or moobs as we’ve christened them for short. I can’t lie; I’ve spent a lifetime in love with lady bumps, but I’ve never actually wanted a pair myself. And it’s so far so good on this front, but I worry that it’s only a matter of time. While I don’t have impressive pecs, I do have something that actually resembles a masculine and muscular chest (small, but definitely made of muscle, all the same) and the thought that this could turn into something resembling snooker balls in a sock dangling from my chest area terrifies me. Because if slim fitting shirts and t-shirts bother me now, imagine how I’m going to feel if I develop moobs! Consequently, I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious about exercise!

As a middle aged man I’ve started to worry about lots of different aspects of my body. One of the more unusual aspects that I’ve begun to consider is the state of my backside. And no, I’m not about to reveal that I’ve got piles or anything like that. I’ve written some awkward paragraphs in my time on this blog, but the piles paragraph simply won’t be one of them. For one, thankfully middle age hasn’t brought that particular horror and for another thing, I don’t think I’d ever write about it if it had happened. I want to be sure that people can still look me in the eye if need be.

In fact, and almost as embarrassingly, what I worry about in an arse sense is actually whether or not it’s still pert. Yes, you read that right. As a slim fella I’ve always had a small bum. Pert too. But recently it occurred to me that, given my age, this might not be so anymore. I’ve even gone as far as checking it out. Not in an obsessive way, but briefly having a quick glance in the mirror. Thankfully, it’s not threatening to start hanging behind my knees or anything like that, so for the time being I’m fairly pleased. But of all the things I thought may concern me as I got older, this wasn’t one.

I think it says a lot about body image that as a man in my forties I’m concerned about having a saggy arse and it made me wonder if this is the kind of thing that other middle aged men worry about. I couldn’t bring myself to ask though. I mean, if it’s not considered wholly masculine to worry too much about your body shape, then I’m sure I’d be derided for asking that kind of question of any of my mates. However lads, if any of you have any concerns or have conducted any of your own personal market research, then I’m happy to talk. We could make a night of it – a proper boys’ night with some takeaway, a nice bottle of wine, candlight and a romcom. You know where I am…

Gaining grey hair was a sign that middle age was approaching. However, what sealed the deal with middle age, and simultaneously started me worrying was when I noticed that it wasn’t just the hair on my head that was changing colour; my chest hair was also going grey…and white in some places. I can’t lie…I began to pluck. And I kept on plucking. This was a visible sign of my body’s failure and its obvious lack of youth and I hated it with a passion. I’m not young enough in my outlook to think that shaving my chest is OK. That’s for a different, weirder generation. For me chest hair is cool and it made me feel decidedly masculine. But grey chest hair? This was calamitous. But the more I envisaged it this way, the worse it got. I seemed to be forever spotting new grey and as a result, forever plucking. In turn, my worry grew more. I didn’t want to be old!

In the end a combination of being unable to keep up with their growth and a gradual acceptance that I couldn’t win helped me relax. Nowadays I’m comfortable with it and in actual fact, this metamorphosis has slowed. I only really have a small patch of grey and white on my chest and the rest, perhaps due to my more relaxed attitude, has remained resolutely black. So while I have I kind of Cruella de Ville look going on with my chest, it’s not up there with the belly in terms of how it dominates my life. In terms of my body image and my ‘dad bod’, it’s OK.

The final area that concerns me more and more with my middle age is what it’s doing to my skin. Specifically, my face. I’m getting wrinkles. Not loads. I don’t yet look like I’m made of leather, but there are definite wrinkles and again it’s a concern. Vanity plays its part here. I think it’s widely accepted that men age better than women in general and they’re certainly not judged by how they look as they get older in anything like the way that women are. But I can’t shake the worry of wrinkles. I don’t see that wrinkles may make me look more dignified, full of character or interesting; I just see age catching up with me.

I’ve tried to combat this particular body image worry for years. I’ve used moisturiser for some time now in order to keep my skin looking at the very least acceptable. But even that is a balancing act. While vanity tugs at me urgently to look after my skin and not worry about what people might think should they find out about me using moisturiser, some misguided sense of masculinity tells me I’m committing some kind of crime against manhood. You see, where I’m from – and my dad and many uncles will back me up on this, once they’ve gotten over the shock of my skincare revelation – men don’t put cream on their face. And all joking aside, I think I’m from an era where lots of my peers probably don’t see it as normal either. And thus, although I use moisturiser to try and keep age at bay at bit, I don’t use it anywhere near enough for fear that I might just turn into a girl or something!

As someone who’s regularly been told that he doesn’t look his age, actual middle age has come as quite a shock and body image, something that’s always been quite an issue for me, has crept more and more into my thinking. I’m not prepared to accept my fate though. The idea of a ‘dad bod’ is fine, but let it happen to someone else’s dad. The belly can wait, as can the moobs and I’ll keep kidding myself that people – not just women, but people, after all I’m a modern man – are checking out my pert little behind. I don’t think I mind being objectified (or at least telling myself I’m being objectified), but I’m damned if I’m not going to fight middle age all the way!

My FitBit Revolution

When it comes to trends and fads, I’m usually almost immune, especially when it comes to technology. I have a phone, a tablet, a laptop etc, but none of them are what you’d call cutting edge. They’ve certainly not been bought to keep up with fashion. I’d like to think that I’m old enough now to trust my judgement and make my own decisions, without relying on what a magazine or a website tells me I should be indulging in.

That’s not to say that my judgement is always right. Often, especially when it comes to clothes, I’ve opted for the less obvious choice and then been left wishing I’d bought the same as everyone else. One of the most notable instances was buying a pair of Adidas Gazelles and going for the bright green and yellow pair rather than the traditional blue and white that thousands of others plumped for. I spent years trying in vain to match my trainers to my clothes and regretting my choice, while everyone else went out looking cool. I still didn’t learn my lesson though.

As such, I’d resisted the idea of a smart watch or a Fitbit. They seemed more a fashion thing than anything to do with actual fitness and I wasn’t interested in knowing how many steps I’d done in a day or what my heart rate might be anyway. And the idea that I could have a watch that also informed me when I was about to get some kind of notification on my phone just seemed like information overload to me. Call me old-fashioned, but surely I’d just check my phone to see if my phone had anything to tell me?

‘It also meant I could set goals…’

However, as I attempted to get back to some sort of fitness following a heart operation, I started running again and in order to keep an eye on distances I downloaded a running app on to my phone. It became quite a comfort to hear the voice of an unidentified American woman telling me how far I’d run and what my average pace was. She’s now my 5th best friend, just behind Alexa in fact. It also meant that I could set goals and track my progress, as well as inevitably informing friends on Facebook that I’d been out running and was knackered, coupled with a picture of myself with a very red face. It’s important that everyone knows these things, especially as it’s not cool to post pictures of your food anymore.

Then I got ill. Nothing serious, just the usual seasonal stuff – heavy colds, a chest infection – and I also damaged my back, meaning that I had to stop running for a while. In fact, I’m yet to go out for my first run of 2019 and it’s now April. But when my son got a Fitbit for Christmas I must admit I was intrigued. He’d tell me on a half hourly basis about how many steps he’d done. He’d point out his heart rate and tell me his blood pressure, like a very, very junior doctor. In fact, when he started advising me to do the same I was convinced he was turning into Doc McStuffins or Doogie Howser. And that’s a niche joke if ever I heard one.

‘It set me a target of 7000 steps daily…’

So when it came to my birthday in February I was pleasantly surprised to receive a Fitbit. My wife saved me the agitation of setting it up and when it was ready I strapped it round my wrist and went to work. It set me a target of 7000 steps daily, which I’m sad to say, I don’t regularly achieve. However, at the very least I am now aware of exactly what I don’t do in a typical day. And I must admit, as a recently discharged heart patient, being able to check my heart rate at a moment’s notice is still genuinely comforting.

While my Fitbit – if I keep mentioning it surely someone will give me some money – hasn’t totally changed my life, it has made me much more aware of my own fitness. This is of course very important as a man of a certain age who is more than a little bit conscious of his grey hair and slowly growing belly. Certainly, just looking at them wasn’t solving anything – to paraphrase Shakespeare, ‘Whilst I threat, my belly lives: words to the heat of deeds a big fatty bum bum belly gives’. So the Fitbit, at the very least, let’s me track my good days and bad days. It represents the first steps in my battle to not give in to a belly, slacks and comfortable shoes. And when I’m not at work it stops me from sitting on my arse all day.

‘It doesn’t make up for the fact that I am my age…’

For years I’ve had the pleasant experience of being regularly told that I don’t look my age. No, really, I have. It doesn’t make up for the fact that I am my age, but it’s pleasant all the same. However, lately the age that people tell me I look has been creeping ever closer to my actual age. ‘You’re 47? Ooh, you only look 45’ isn’t the kind of flattery that gets you everywhere. And this makes me quite sad. So another reason to Fitbit myself into action then. Can it reverse the effects of ageing and will people start telling me I look like I’m ‘only’ in my late 30s? I doubt it, but it might make me feel a whole lot better about myself. I’ll know whether I’m making an effort or not. And at least, when people look at me and weigh up how old I am, they might not be able to spot my belly or any sign of a double chin. At the very least, by tracking my activity a bit more I might be able to somehow convince myself that I look good for my age.

And the battle against ageing is very real in a different way too. When I look at some of my peers – those who are as old as me or a similar age – sometimes it terrifies me. At a previous school my department insisted on sitting me down for a department dinner, where everyone brought snacks and stuff in order to celebrate my birthday. And if this wasn’t uncomfortable enough, my Head of Department invited our Deputy Head, a man I loathed but that he was desperate to impress. Anyway, we got chatting over dinner and someone asked how old I actually was. When I told them, it turned out that I was about a month older than the Deputy Head, who looked at least 10 years older than me. I think this may have been the exact moment that the struggle for fitness and perhaps some version of eternal youth, became very real!

When I was a kid adults used to tell me that ‘in their heads’ they only felt about 18 and I used to think that was utter rubbish. I’d look at their terrible clothes, grey hair and wrinkles and think, ‘I’ll never get like that’. And now I am those people. I feel like I’m only 18, but I clearly don’t look it. And while it doesn’t exactly terrify me, I know that I still want to look better and feel fitter. Hence the Fitbit revolution. And yes, I understand that it’s not magic and that I have to actually exercise more, rather than just glancing at a watch all day and fretting that I’m 4000 steps short of my target. This is undoubtedly and easier approach, but I don’t think it’s going to be all that successful.

The worry lies with where the revolution stops. For a while now I’ve had some of the gear. The base layers, skins or running tights; whatever you want to call them. My wife even bought me a top made from bamboo, so I’m eco-friendly (unless you’re a panda) but also, in some way that I can’t quite put my finger on, high performance as well.

‘But did you know of a product called Runderwear?’

But could my Fitbit become like some kind of gateway drug? Where does one stop? Counting steps is one thing, but I’m still keen to resume running. And if I get dissatisfied with my Fitbit, how much do I have to spend in order to make myself happy and achieve even better results? As I’ve mentioned, I’m not immune to wearing a base layer, even though on my bottom half I end up looking like someone’s put tights on two golf clubs. But did you know of a product called Runderwear? That’s right; underwear for running. It stops chafing and general discomfort while also sounding like the kind of idea you’d expect on Reeves and Mortimer’s Big Night Out or The Fast Show. But how far does my revolution have to go before I consider Runderwear? Do I really have to be that serious about things in order to cling on to a tiny bit of youth and get rid of what really is only a baby of a belly? I have to confess though that a heath scare a year ago coupled with the running APP and the Fitbit has had me genuinely considering Runderwear! It’ll be a bike or a treadmill next and all the gear to go with it. I must be strong.

Furthermore, with a Fitbit there’s the temptation to track things like your blood pressure or your sleep. But in my case this could be both futile and damaging. Firstly, I’ve never really understood what blood pressure actually is. I’ve had it measured on countless occasions but never bothered to ask what it’s all about. It always just feels like the doctor’s trying to hurt me with the machine. So why I need to be checking up on it from a watch, well who knows? With sleep, I know I don’t get enough. I’m not the night owl that I once was, but I’m more than happy staying up late. So to be told by my Fitbit that not only wasn’t I getting enough sleep, but that it wasn’t of the right quality might actually worry me closer to greyer hair and the kind of comfort eating that could only enhance those love handles. So I’ll stick to just religiously checking on my steps, I think.

‘Personally I found it soul destroyingly embarrassing…’

In a way, I’d like things to just go back to the standards of the 70s and 80s when it was clearly OK to just become a middle-aged man, with no pressure whatsoever. Certainly, it didn’t take my dad any effort at all to start wearing Farah slacks or badly fitting jeans. No one batted an eyelid, apart his kids. Personally I found it soul destroyingly embarrassing, but to others it was perfectly acceptable. Men got to a certain age and just stopped trying a bit. But as a teenager whose parents were older than those of most of my peers, I wasn’t keen on walking round with a bloke who could well have been mistaken for my granddad, with his jeans and slip-on shoes. Or a retired golf catalogue model in casual slacks. Nowadays though things have changed and there’s a definite pressure to stay young in any way you can. Sadly, I’m not immune to it, it seems and my Fitbit revolution is just more proof of it. I think having young children is part of it along with a little bit of vanity. Whatever I put it down to, I’m not the only one who’s checking their steps and wondering where I can walk to at work in order to get closer to that target. I might be on my own in pondering Runderwear though.

So this revolution may not be televised. But it will definitely continue at pace until that belly starts to recede.

February: Making Every Day Count.

Ignore the bit about young people. This is some serious self-help business going down.

Self-help books. I’ve always wondered how, if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, you would the time to read one. And what makes the people who write them right? Why should we take notice? Well, perhaps I need to have a closer look.

One of the best things about my job is the access to stuff that I have. Yes, I have incredible colleagues, teach great kids and it’s never dull. However, I reckon at least 75% of teachers will tell you that the most exciting part of the job is the stationary; the stuff. In late August every year stationers and supermarkets are packed to the rafters with teachers searching out new diaries, notebooks, pens and other stuff. And then when we get to school in early September, someone has ordered loads of other stuff that you’re practically encouraged to help yourself too. Over the years I’ve had countless pens, coloured pencils, planners, files, folders etc. Best of all though is the books. Sometimes people just send you books, giving you the feeling of an actual famous person who has stuff thrown their way daily. On other occasions you somehow manage to help yourself to books that are otherwise gathering dust in a cupboard, giving the feeling of an actual…thief.

Recently, while having a clear out of my desk drawers I discovered some bizarre stuff. Two self-help type books that I have no recollection whatsoever of acquiring. One called ‘Making Every Day Count’ which promises to help you solve problems, set goals and feel good about yourself and the other titled ‘Making The Most of Today’ which was much of the same. And so, I decided to try them out and blog about it as I go.

I’ve decided that I’ll be ‘Making Every Day Count’ but that I may well cheat occasionally in order that I’m ‘Making The Most of Every Day’. Depends on which book has the best advice, I suppose.

If I was cleverer and wittier I’d come up with a hilarious blend word to fit the occasion. You know, along the lines of ‘Movember’. But I’m not. So here we go on taking self-help advice for the whole of February. Self-helpbruary?

Friday 1st February

Today’s advice is to ‘Make a To-Do list’. Easy. My life is literally made up of a series of lists. So today, I learn precisely nothing apart from the fact that I’m already helping myself.

Saturday 2nd February

The book encourages me to talk about my fears with someone I trust. It’s a Saturday, a day for family, so I’m faced with a choice of my wife and partner of the last 24 years or my children, aged 12 and 9, neither of whom I could trust as far as I could throw them. The wife it is then. But then when I think about it, I don’t think I have any fears. Newcastle United getting relegated and Rafa Benitez leaving? Maybe, but I’d rather just shout at the telly or write barbed comments on Twitter than bother Louise. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to die any time soon – I was told only last week by my cardiologist that there are few fears there.

In the end, I give up on fears. It’s Saturday; there’s shopping to be done, football to be watched and probably countless jobs around the house to be tackled. Fears can wait.

Sunday 3rd February

‘I’ll focus on what I think of me’. Genuine self-help advice at the bottom of the page for today. Brilliant! Too easy. I think I’m alright, really. Despite my age I don’t think I look too bad, I’m fit and healthy and despite a burgeoning belly there’s not a lot that can’t be put right. I’m happy. In my head I’m the funniest person I know – if you know me you know that if no one else is laughing at my jokes, you can guarantee I most definitely will be. And as I proved yesterday, I have no fears that are getting in the way of just living my life. This self-help lark is beginning to look like child’s play!

Monday 4th February

Today we hit a snag. I open the book and read the following – Today I’ll think like an optimist. Oh.

Whether it’s the amount of childhood dreams that I’ve not achieved, whether it’s a lifetime supporting an under achieving football team or whether it’s being brought up in a distinctly risk averse environment, I think I’m much more of a pessimist. Or at the very least, a realist.

But, I try to be optimistic. Maybe I won’t have to almost constantly ask my Year 10s to be quiet. After all, they’re in a library. Maybe my Year 11 boys will just get on without any inappropriate language or silly, juvenile behaviour. And maybe, just maybe, when I get in from work there won’t be X-Box related shouting that forces me to retreat, wordless to the sanctity of our bedroom where I will sit and read, alone. Maybe, for once, the kids will hear the door and bolt from the living room into the hallway where they’ll smile as they shout ‘Dad!’ before engulfing me with cuddles. Maybe my wife won’t have had to work all day on her day off and she’ll be calm and happy and stress-free.

And maybe, as I discover when every optimistic hope is launched back at me with ferocious force, it’s better to be a pessimist and never be disappointed.

Tuesday 5th February

Today is the day that, according to the fresh page that I’m faced with, ‘I’ll find ways to use my talents’. Aah, my talents. These include dancing like Mick Jagger, signing slowed down, ‘club-singer’ versions of any song going and keepie-uppies with a football. Oh, and sarcasm. But that is already used heavily on a daily basis. And I don’t think my students would even know who Mick Jagger is, let alone want me to mincing, pouting and clapping my way around the classroom, telling them about my lack of satisfaction. As a result, I find no ways to use my talents.

Wednesday 6th February

I open the page and am immediately baffled. The instruction reads, ‘I’ll be grateful for a time when I didn’t get what I wanted.’ Sorry, what? Why would I be grateful for that? So I read the little parable that goes with it. To summarise, Ben Affleck is a big, big star, but once upon a time he had no money. Apparently he’s glad he didn’t get the part on Beverley Hills 90210.

Now I get it. As it goes I’m also grateful I never got a part on Beverley Hills 90210. I’d have never fit in. There’s no hope of me looking or sounding stylish, classy or posh and not only that but they drive on the wrong side of the road over there. Nightmare. Thanks for the advice, Ben.

Thursday 7th February

Today – my birthday – I’m told by my book that ‘I’ll solve a problem peacefully’. Now I’d like to think that I’m a fairly peaceful kind of person. When you’re built like me there’s little point in raging at everything, let alone getting into confrontation. And so, this should be easy.

My job throws up lots problems. If I’m perfectly honest I don’t think I ever get too stressed out about that. However, today, I’m serene. Like a millpond or a beautiful sunset. Even when a kid simply doesn’t understand what a gooseberry is, even though it’s been explained at least 5 times by both members of staff in the room. He’s still sure that it’s a sweet. Still, I smile and move on, even though this is a situation ripe – don’t you dare pardon that fruit based pun – for sarcasm.

Friday 8th February

Friday. The end of another busy week and the book suggests that I ‘ask someone I respect for problem solving tips’. Now this is difficult. Not because there’s a lack of people I respect; I’ve never worked with a better group of people.

No, it’s not that. My problem lies with the fact that I generally try to just quietly solve problems myself. True, sometimes that’s by ignoring them until the last second, but usually stuff just gets taken care of. I even tried this tactic with a heart problem and might have gotten away with it had it not been for that pesky doctor.

So, tired and weary, for today I’ll keep my problems to myself. But in the future, maybe I’ll try to share.

Saturday 9th February

It’s Saturday and I’m rushed off my feet. The sanctuary of work seems a long way away and I’m knee-deep in food shopping, washing and trying to plan for a meal out for my birthday. I’m ignoring the book and helping myself. Today’s advice can wait until tomorrow.

Sunday 10th February

Today, the Under 10s football team that I coach have a cup Quarter Final. And amazingly, the book tells me to think about my dreams last night and ask Are my dreams trying to tell me something?’ I dreamed of football. I generally do on a Saturday night and if I wake during the night I have to try really hard not to start considering tactics and team selection for the next day.

Clearly my dreams are trying to tell me that I’m worryingly obsessed with football and that I need to grow up…

In terms of yesterday’s advice, I was asked to do a good deed. To do today’s ref a favour I sub one of my players within seconds of him shouting at said ref about a decision. Good deed done.

Monday 11th February

‘I’ll talk to my teacher’. Instead, I talk to several teachers. Because I’m a teacher. Surprisingly, it’s mostly absolute garbage, but it helps. Well, that was easy.

Tuesday 12th February

Today the book asks, ‘Do your parents seem weird?’ and advises me to love them just the way they are. My parents are both in their late 70s (although my mother keeps her actual age a closely guarded secret) and they’re typical pensioners. So that’s an easy ‘yes’ to the first question. I literally have no idea how their minds work…apart from slowly. And while I could assassinate their characters in thousands of words – cantankerous, narrow-minded, grumpy, etc – I love them anyway. It’s written in the contract really.

Wednesday 13th February

My job has always presented me with a bit of a conflict. That conflict is this; I love my job, but I don’t really want to do my job. There’s no lack of commitment – I’ve been a teacher for almost 20 years – but it isn’t what I really want or wanted to do. It wasn’t a calling for me where I had a blinding epiphany. Truth be told I wanted to be a footballer or a journalist. Today’s life advice tells me to think about my dream job. I do. Every day. But I wasn’t good enough to do either and well, something has got to pay those bills.

Thursday 14th February

Predictably, today’s way to make the most of every day is romantic. ‘Today I’ll send someone a secret Valentine’ it reads. As a happily married man this isn’t going to make me feel good about myself. I feel the book has taken a bit of a turn. Will it be telling me I should jump off a cliff by the end of the month?

It’s safe to say I won’t be sending anyone a secret Valentine. For the sake of my marriage and several of my bones.

Friday 15th February

The book suggests I get a pen pal today, but given advancing technology and the fact that I am no longer 12, I’ll ignore it. Instead, I choose the task in ‘Making the Most of Today’, which tells me to ‘Be tolerant of others’. Now this is a challenge. However, promising myself a rewards trip to the beer shop tonight, I vow to rise to the challenge. I ignore the shouting out during my form’s House Quiz and I bite my lip rather than commenting that ‘No one cares’ when the Maths questions are both stuff about what ‘x’ might be if 3x is combined with another sum that for some godforsaken reason has brackets around it. Finally, faced with my last class of the week – who are also my worst behaved – I smile my way through the hour and try to gently encourage and cajole some of my most lazy pupils into putting pen to paper. I am Disney teacher. I have to say though, I feel a lot more relaxed at the end of the lesson. But boy, walking through the doors of the beer shop has never felt so good!

Saturday 16th February

Today it’s suggested that I ‘Start a feelings journal’. I come from the very far north of England where feelings aren’t really encouraged in the men. Thus, I will help myself to a day off today. I haven’t got time for feelings, let alone writing them down.

Sunday 17th February

Today’s advice plays right into my hands. In order to help myself I’m ordered to believe in myself with the simple statement, ‘I believe in me’. Job done. While I wouldn’t describe myself as confident, to use the modern parlance, I back myself. I don’t wander around telling myself you got this, because I’m not a complete idiot, but I have belief. And realistic expectations. I’ll grumble my way through a day, but I realised a long time ago that there’s no point in giving up. I don’t need an inspirational tattoo or a mantra, but I do believe in myself. Even at the worst of times I’ve got through, and sometimes that’s as much as you can ask.

Well, that was very serious, wasn’t it?

Monday 18th February

The first day of our half term holiday and the advice is perfect for me. I’m told to focus on how a challenge is working for me. This is ideal as today is the day we’ve chosen to head to the Peak District for a bit of a hike. I say a bit of a hike but we’ll be doing 6.4 miles. Quite the challenge for someone who had heart surgery 9 months ago.

Heading constantly uphill for the first mile through ever more driving rain, it’s difficult to work out how this challenge is working for me. My knees hurt and I’m soaked through. Self help, my arse. However, having stopped for a sandwich part way up the hill – it might be a mountain, I don’t know the definition – I take in the view and realise that yes, this is working for me. It’s inspirational. I’m not at one with nature or anything, but a little later on as we’re right at the top watching grouse fly over the moors and then observing a kestrel as it hovers close by, I’m utterly relaxed. And to top it all, by the time I reach the end of the hike, although I’m tired, I’ve more than done my steps for the day so my Fitbit can stop buzzing at me!

Tuesday 19th February

Another great piece of advice. I have to do something I love. I start by taking my son to the fields near our house for a bit of football. I’m his dad and his coach, so this one to one stuff also benefits the team. It’s warm and more or less deserted so we spend ages doing shooting drills – him shooting and me throwing myself around in goals. Definitely something I love with someone I love.

Later, I cram in some writing – this bit of the blog plus some more of another – while discovering new music. I listen to some Death Cab for Cutie, a band I’ve always been aware of but never actually heard until a few days ago. Turns out, they’re great.

I had to do something I loved. I love football, my kids, writing and music. Today was a good self-help kind of day.

Wednesday 20th February

The guide tells me that today I’ll admit my mistakes. Now I’d like to think I’m honest enough to almost always admit when I’ve made a mistake. However today was officially a bit of a rest day. I mean, we went on a 6 mile hike on Monday! As a consequence, apart from a visit to Asda we don’t really leave the house, preferring to sit in and watch ‘Solo: A Star Wars Story.’ It’s brilliant. No mistakes to admit.

Thursday 21st February

It’s Thursday and half term is drawing to a close. But it’s all OK, because my self-help guide tells me that I can exercise my right to make four big mistakes today. Bizarre. How does this help me? Is the book telling me that I’m Ok to go and rob a bank? That’s a big mistake. I don’t think I’d get away with that, book or no book. Could I run down the street naked? Perish the thought! No one would eat again for a week if they witnessed that.

I’m a fully grown adult. I’m going to make a decision here: I’ll just try to not make any mistakes today; big or otherwise.

Friday 22nd February

Today’s advice assumes I’m a shrinking violet; a humble man with no sense of ego whatsoever. I can’t follow today’s advice. But I assure you that I will absolutely follow it, to the letter, when the time comes. Today’s advice? I will take credit for my success. Of course I will! I might even shoehorn myself into taking credit for other people’s success as well.

Saturday 23rd February

Now I can’t lie, I love time alone. I don’t think that I’m ever more comfortable than when I’m simply on my own. It’s not that I don’t like people; I love being around people, although at the same time I wouldn’t call myself enormously friendly or effervescent. I’m just perfectly comfortable in my own company. So today, when I look at the relevant page in my book and it says I’ll spend time alone, I’m certain that this is advice I can follow. Consequently, I pop upstairs for a lie down to read my book, nip through to the kitchen to do some dishes on my own and then eventually head outside to wash my car, while listening to the match on the radio. Bliss. Bliss, that is until while crouched down to clean my wheels I pull something in my back and have to hobble around in agony before heading back inside to find someone to moan to. It would seem I can’t help my self.

Sunday 24th February

Apparently today, I’ll notice a problem and come up with a solution. I can’t help but notice a problem. I’m full of cold and am struggling to even walk due to a back problem gained while spending time alone. And yes, I understand how wrong that sounds, but even in pain I can see that it’s mildly amusing and suitably juvenile.

Regardless of my problem though, the team I coach have a game and there’s kit to be carried. Another problem. Luckily, two parents offer to carry everything when we arrive at the ground after noticing that the coach is walking like a hunchback. Strictly speaking this is not self-help, but it’s definitely a problem solved. I decide not to push my luck too far by asking for a cheeky massage.

Monday 25th February

Back to work. Or maybe not. I get up, showered and dressed, but while eating breakfast realise that I’m in the kind of pain that requires at the very least a little cry or preferably a lot of lying down. I’m not sure that my students would behave all that well if I was just lying down. Clearly, I can’t go in. I’m in genuine pain and I can’t really walk. Coincidentally the book tells me to notice changes in myself, so I take heed and call in sick. Then, I go for a lie down.

Tuesday 26th February

This self-help lark is easy. Although I’m still off work today’s advice is ‘I’ll let my mind wander.’ This is just how my mind works. It rarely focuses, but my oh my, can it wander. Wander, wander, wander, wander…ooh, the family’s home. Well that went quickly.

Wednesday 27th February

Tragically, today I’m told to suggest a family meeting. Unfortunately I have an acute aversion to any kind of meeting so I pretend that it’s Tuesday again and let my mind wander. And let me tell you, it’s much, much better than a family meeting.

Thursday 28th February

Sadly, it’s the final day of my experiment. I’ve quite enjoyed having a little bit of focus to my days, other than the usual stuff. However, I think what I’ve taken from this whole thing is that self help is OK, but it’s really too easy for everything else to get in its way. I have a family and a stressful job. I also have a life to get on with. Just getting on with stuff in general is my self-help.

Fittingly, the last bit of advice offered to me by the book is I’ll ask for help if I need it. It really is fitting because I generally don’t ask for help. I’d much rather soldier on and try to just solve problems myself. But, with middle age firmly upon me and an ever more busy life, from now on, I’ll ask for help if I need it. Bring on March.

‘I’m knackered during the warm-up!’ – the trials of an aspiring coach.

As a qualified coach, I know how to keep things simple for the Under 10s! Not quite sure I’ve mastered drawing though…

For the whole of December I spent my Saturdays and some of my evenings working towards my Level 1 FA coaching badge. It wasn’t something I actually wanted to do, but after a few gentle shoves from my club, I found myself heading for Huddersfield early on the first day in December. This would be the start of four consecutive Saturdays spent slogging through mornings of various classroom based theory and afternoons of practical sessions. But it would be worth it, right?

I actually qualified as both a Level 1 coach and a referee around twenty years ago as part of my teaching qualification, so, I must admit I felt a little bit put out at the insistence that I do it all again. That said, I suppose it’s obvious that such an old qualification should be considered no use after such a long time and so perhaps, with my team and my club in mind, I should be grateful for the chance to become qualified once more. But, at just after 9am on a Saturday, approaching the place where I’ll be put through my paces, I’m not feeling very grateful at all. Today will last from 9.30 until 5.30 after all – and that’s after having done a week at work. Could it be that I’m just too old for this kind of caper nowadays?

For anyone who doesn’t know, I’ve been coaching one of the Under 10s teams at our local football club for the past year now. I went along as a dad watching his son and ended up being the coach; a common tale from what I can gather. However, given the club’s status as a holder of the FA’s Charter Standard, I’ve been made to get my qualification, despite my misgivings. And I must admit, despite my grumbling, there was a part of me that was actually looking forward to it. I’ve loved football for pretty much my whole life and so the chance to spend even more time indulging myself in it does have a bit of an appeal. And then of course there’s being a bloke and having an ego. I can spend afternoons fluking the odd bit of skill, scoring a few goals and generally kidding myself that I’ve still got it, whatever ‘it’ might have been.

On the first week I checked into the reception of the venue to be greeted by around 15 other reticent faces. Barely anyone looked like they could really be bothered. It wasn’t long however, before we were being ushered out of the reception back out into the cold and pointed in the direction of a hut in the far corner of the complex. This would be our classroom, the magic building where all of us would become the next Klopp, Benitez or in the case of the locals, Wagner. That’s David Wagner, the Huddersfield Town coach, not the pervy looking long-haired Brazilian fella from the X-Factor of years gone by.

Inside the hut we’re welcomed by Norman, an FA coach who will be our mentor and coaching guru for the next month or so. He’s smiley and friendly and seems to know his stuff. And he really gets on our good side by telling us we’ll be running through our practicals on the indoor pitch because it’s bitterly cold outside and he doesn’t fancy standing around in the cold for a few hours! I think I’m going to warm to him, if you’ll pardon the pun.

We spend the next few hours discussing things like the qualities of a good coach, how we treat our players and the FA DNA, which is the blueprint for how the English FA want the game to be approached and the same path that is followed by all coaches, right the way through to Mr Southgate at the top. Our discussions are somewhat hamstrung though, as we battle to get a word in edgeways. We happen to have a ready made expert on the course. You know the kind – no actual qualifications, but more than willing to share his vast experience with us, question the bloke leading the course and ask questions that have just been answered, because of course, he wasn’t listening. He’ll be like this for the next four weeks. Has he mentioned that he coaches 3 teams? Just a bit. Has he told us about the gala that his team entered and won every game? Only a few times. Are we bored of hearing him talk and would we all like him to just shut up? Have a guess. More of him later though.

We also talk ‘invasion games’ which is a new one on me and for a second I’m left wondering how I could’ve missed this concept, given the amount of time I give to football. Turns out though it’s just a bit like attack versus defence. Later, I’m also introduced to other labels for stuff that I already have a name for. After nearly 40 years of watching, playing and coaching football this is a little bit like learning a new language! I’ll probably just stick to using the same terms I always have for the sake of my Under 10s.

Being the social animal that I am I spend lunch time in my car, listening to the radio. If you know me, you’d expect nothing less. On the walk there though, I’m collared by one of the young coaches on the course. I recognise him. He recognises me. It turns out that he’s an ex-pupil, now 22. I’m fully expecting a punch in the face, but he’s nothing but complimentary. He now works in video analysis for a rugby league team and he’s keen to let me know that he got his GCSE in English!

For the afternoon session – as it will be for all of our Saturdays in December – we take to the indoor 3G pitch where we’re either running coaching sessions or taking part in them. Having paired up in the morning we’d designed sessions to run and now it’s time to give them a go. Now, despite a health scare earlier this year, I’d like to think that I’ve kept myself fit, so a few hours running around a pitch holds no fears for me. However, it’s a different story at the end of the warm-up! I’m knackered! We warm up for around 15 minutes, with several short, sharp drills and by the end of it all I can feel my heart hammering inside my chest. As the first pair of coaches set up their drill though, I catch my breath and I’m up and volunteering as they introduce their game.

This is the structure for the afternoon then. Each pair presents their drill and for 10 minutes, those who can still move freely take part. It’s a harsh baptism for this particular 46 year-old! During the first drill I’m not too bad, but in the midst of the second I realise I’m chasing shadows. Experience takes over and I gather myself and start to work smarter. I can’t chase every ball anymore so I start to read the game, cutting off space when I defend and moving into it when I attack, reading what opponents might do and crucially, moving less!

As we stand around afterwards giving feedback, I have a look at my fellow coaches. I’m fairly sure that I’m the oldest. Several of the group are between 17 and 22. In terms of my fitness, I’m out of my depth. I resolve to grow up a bit and realise that I just need to take part. It’s a better alternative than running until I drop! My partner, Nick, is similarly knackered and we’re glad of the rest we’ll get when it comes to both setting up and running our drill.

Our drill is well received and there is no negative feedback. People have obviously enjoyed it, as has the coach running the course and he’s generous in his praise. Even at my age I can’t help but smile. Even at my age it makes me feel proud. It’s a huge positive to find that your peers have loved what you’ve set them to do and I feel like we’re standing out in the best possible way. I jog my way through the rest of the day and after we’ve given peer feedback and written down our homework, it’s time, thank goodness, to head home. I’m exhausted, but have had an undeniably enjoyable day.

My next stop on the coaching journey is another Huddersfield leisure centre. It’s a Wednesday night and we’re set for three hours of fun learning First Aid. I’m genuinely surprised that the main focus of this course seems to be cardiac arrests. I coach 9 & 10 year-olds, but I’m assured that it can happen, so I’m glad of the knowledge gained. Our rather confident and talkative friend is there and proceeds, once again, to do a lot more talking than listening. God help anyone who suffers with anymore than a dead leg at the side of his pitch.

I leave at 9.30pm and drive home praying that at least one chip shop will be open. My prayers aren’t answered though and I’m forced to head to McDonalds insetad. Silver linings? Turns out every cloud is a cloud after all.

The following Saturday I’m put through my paces once again. Same format – classroom based in the morning as the coach battles with the self appointed Special One of the group, who continues to give us the benefit of his experience as often as he can. He coaches three teams you know. He coaches girls. He coaches boys. No doubt he coaches everything in between too. I believe Pep Guardiola started in much the same way, but unlike our fella, he doesn’t like to talk about it.

We’re not even safe from him out on the pitches for the practical sessions either! During the instructions he always has a question and during the feedback there’s always something that he would’ve done different or a nit to pick! By week three, when we all stand in a circle during feedback he’s actually taken to standing in the middle of it, as if he’s the bloke running the course. Worse though, is the fact that he doesn’t get any quieter!

During the afternoon work out I manage to injure myself, which if you’ve ever played football with me in the past, will come as no surprise. I’m delaying an attack by jockeying backwards instead of diving into a tackle – we’ve discussed this in the morning session, so I’m putting my learning into practice in search of Brownie points. However, my tired legs can’t keep up with my brain and I tumble backwards going literally head over heels and narrowly avoiding being stood on by advancing players. I feel something pull in my groin and I know that it’s going to be a long afternoon after that! I’m a big boy and soldier on, but I’m limping quite heavily by the time we leave. Clearly tonight will be spent with my feet up on the settee, recuperating!

On the plus side of things we tweak our successful drill from last week and, if anything it goes even better. People know exactly where they should be and what they should be doing and in the very last seconds a pinpoint cross is headed in spectacularly right in front of Norman, our coach and the FA mentor who has turned up! You couldn’t script this. I go on to use the same drill with my Under 10s in our next training session and again, it goes well. I might actually be learning something! That stuff about old dogs is clearly rubbish!

I have another midweek session, this time only until 8.30 and it’s about Safeguarding. Because of my job I’m familiar with the subject matter so it’s not too draining. The next night I have a Parents’ Evening at work and so by the following Saturday, I’m worn out.

There’s no let up though and to make matters worse Norman has decided that we’ll have a short time to work on our drills before we go to the pitches to run through them. A morning exercise session! We’ll be doing some drills this morning, then some classroom stuff, followed by the remaining drills. I know straight away that my body will seize up once I’ve stopped and so the afternoon session promises to be testing to say the least. I mean, did I mention that I’m 46?

As predicted, as we warm up in the afternoon I can practically hear my joints creaking. My brain is screaming things like ‘sit down’, ‘hot chocolate’, ‘Wurthers Originals, pipe and slippers’, but I have to ignore it and push myself on. We change our drill completely – the only group to do so – and again it works well. So well in fact that the coach tells us that had he been running a similar session he’d have done the exact same drill. With bashful grins we write up our feedback knowing that Nick had taken the drill from the FA website the night before! Turns out there’s no substitute for experience after all! A good day all round and now we’re nearly qualified FA coaches to boot!

With no midweek session, the final Saturday dawns and it promises to be a short one. We’re classroom based today, writing up our journals and discussing football matters with Norman. Sounds great. My feet certainly favour this approach, as does the rest of my aching, middle-aged body.

I was told before starting the course that ‘all you have to do is turn up…you can’t actually fail’. But this has certainly been far harder than that. From what I gather, the course has changed due to the FA’s new ‘DNA’ approach. I’ve had homework, research to do and been faced with a very hands on approach during all of the sessions. It’s certainly not been a case of simply turning up and feigning listening every day. We’ve had to be proactive. We’ve had to think for ourselves. We’ve been put on the spot. And God knows we’ve been tested physically – or is that just me and the other older members of the group? Whichever way I look at it, I feel like I’ve earned my title of Level 1 coach, that’s for sure.

When we’re finished we say our goodbyes and I’m off to my car, tired but happy. There’s lots to do – Christmas is three days away – but as I drive home I realise that the whole thing has definitely been worth it. I’ve certainly improved as a coach. The three training sessions that I’ve put on across the time that I’ve been on the course have been varied, enjoyable and productive. I can see my players improving and they’re enjoying what we do. We haven’t had the chance to put our learning into practice due to games being postponed, but I’m really hopeful that some of the things we’ve worked on will bear fruit on the pitch. Whatever happens, I’m now more creative as a coach and hope that when I’m stood on the touchline trying to resolve some kind of problem or other I’ll be better placed to come up with a solution. Mind you, until the FA come up with a module on tying laces with frozen fingers, there’ll always be something that I can’t solve. Perhaps that’s on the Level 2 course…

Run for your life! (Dramatic, I know, but probably the first in an occasional series)

Tights, camera, action. June last year, when I was healthy!

So Saturday 6th October turned out to be a big day. To the casual observer, nothing earth-shattering happened. In fact, to pretty much anyone but me, today was just an ordinary Saturday. To a point it was a very ordinary Saturday for me too. Asda shop, bit of dinner, bit of telly, put a wash in. Standard Saturday action in our house.

But on Saturday, I did something – and achieved something – because of a spur of the moment thought. Let me explain, with a bit of background.

If you’ve read any of my first few blogs or are a friend or colleague, you’ll know that April was true to T.S. Eliot’s words as ‘the cruellest month’ for me this year. In short, my health took quite a dramatic downturn and I found myself having a heart operation. Obviously this wasn’t in the plan. However, it was made all the more annoying by the fact that before it had all happened I’d felt fitter and stronger than I’d felt in years. I’d dragged myself back out running months earlier and, with the help of my kids, was going out regularly, losing my gut and generally enjoying the feeling of being fit. We’d got our own little running club – Team Crosby – and quite frankly it was absolutely brilliant.

And then, I started to feel rough. I really was having to drag myself out for runs and slowly but surely I stopped. I told myself it was just a succession of colds or bugs and that when Spring came, I’d be healthier and back out, feeling good. But it didn’t happen.

Immediately after my surgery, running was impossible. Apart from the obvious danger to my heart, I had huge black bruises from the surgery creeping from my groin down towards my knees. Walking hurt, and so I put any thoughts of running as far to the back of my mind as I could muster. And let me tell you, there’s a whole load of nonsense to get through once you’ve been parked at the back of my mind.

So for a while running and fitness in general was a no-go area. After all, I had an excuse to not feel guilty. But every time I opened my wardrobe my running gear seemed to be staring at me and so gradually the whole subject was cropping up again and again. I could feel myself getting a bit more of a tummy, but for a while, I was able to satisfy myself that there was no need to get my trainers on and no need to worry. After all, I was coaching my football team every Thursday and so jogging around a field while doing that was exercise enough. Running was slipping away from me and I was convincing myself that, at my age, I didn’t need to bother anymore. I was apathetic and, if I’m honest, I was a little bit scared. So I hid behind the fact that I’d been poorly and joked a lot about the fact that I could have died, you know.

If you don’t know, I’m a teacher, and this means that I have the pleasure and privilege of 6 weeks off work in summer. I won’t lie; it’s amazing to get up every day and know that I don’t have to pull on a shirt, suit, tie and shoes and go to work. What it does bring though is the time to think. And the time to get out and about and do things that I can excuse myself from while I’m at work because there’s never enough time. So I did a lot of thinking. And I started to take my son to the local football fields a couple of times a week for some football practice. And because of this, I did some tentative running. We’d warm up before playing by running around the fields and I managed to drag myself around and do just short of 2 kilometres a few times. It was never comfortable though. In fact, it was horrible and really quite embarrassing. I felt old, fat and unfit. So when summer ended and work started and I felt pretty much justified in quietly consigning running and Team Crosby to the back of my mind, once again. Perhaps forever.

So Saturday 6th October, with its Asda trip, telly, dinner and putting a wash in, was kind of momentous for me. Running hadn’t really entered my thoughts for anything other than fleeting moments since August. And then I read a friend’s post on Facebook – thanks Shaun – about Park Run. Something clicked. I have no idea why. I wanted to go for a run. We had some dinner and I mentioned that I might go out. My wife said we were going to watch some telly and have a coffee, so I decided I wouldn’t bother just yet. I’d go out later. I think my wife is quite frightened of me going out running again. She can’t see me. She doesn’t know I’m safe and despite the fact that I’m probably a right royal pain in the backside to live with, I know that my being ill had really shaken her. But I was determined to get out and run.

At just after 4.30 in the afternoon, I found myself stood by my front door looking ludicrous in running tights, shorts and a running top. If you’ve ever seen my legs, you’ll understand. But I felt calm and I felt ready. And at least if I get running the neighbours don’t have too much of me to laugh at. So off I went.

I live on quite a big hill so within 50 yards I was climbing. But I felt good. There were three people up ahead on my side of the road, so being the self-conscious, lanky, skinny bloke that I am, I crossed the road. I quickly caught and passed them. Someone might have commented – my tights are really quite snazzy – but I wasn’t going to give it much thought. Halfway up the hill and I was running well, travelling quickly. About ten yards further up the hill and I felt my legs turning to jelly! It had been a long time since I’d run up here! I focused, and reminded myself that the top of the hill wasn’t that far off and that once I got there it was a left turn, a stretch of flat and then, thankfully, a slight downhill stretch.

By the top of the hill I’d slowed a bit, my stride getting shorter. But I was still running. I turned left and ran around the bend. As I looked up I spotted another test. Two men were standing outside of a local pub. They were certain to comment on the deathly pale fella stumbling and wheezing past. I told myself to shut up, straightened myself up from being hunched over a little from the top of the hill, and ran on. As I passed there wasn’t even the slightest murmur. I concentrated on running again as the downhill stretch started. The paving stones here are a bit of a mess and the last thing I needed was to trip and fall flat on my face. Louise would never let me out again! On I ran.

At the bottom of the hill I turned right and tried to loosen my shoulders a little. I was tensing up, tiring. Suddenly the American lady that voices my running app told me that I’d run my first kilometre. I listened for the time and nearly fainted as she told my that I’d been running for just over 6 minutes. I was flying! This was just the boost I needed.

Another slight uphill section was followed by a second downhill, past a host of houses. I imagined people hurtling up to their windows as a man with a face the colour of a tomato stumbled past. I go a terrifying shade of scarlet when I’m running and it usually feels like my face is swelling up. Attractive, huh? It’s partly for this reason that I also run along on the far side of the road for this section. Partly that, partly because it’s slightly going the long way round and partly because for some reason running on the actual road makes me feel a bit like Rocky! I never do the shadow boxing, but I imagine a trail of children running behind me, smiling and trying grab at me.

At the bottom of this downhill section I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I go straight on and end my run early when I run out of flat or do I turn a sharp right where I can run a long flat section before being faced with a steady uphill climb that will inevitably end my run, having gone a little bit further? I’m still feeling reasonably fresh so I head right. I’m now on the bottom end of my estate, I know people who live down here, so I say a silent prayer – please don’t let me encounter anyone I know, not while I’m impersonating a tomato and pretty much head to toe in tight lycra. I run on, feeling strong, staying upright and trying to remember to relax. It’s quiet here and I can hear myself panting as I go. Maybe I should have had another blast on my inhaler before I left.

I’m just approaching the left turn that will see me head uphill and through a nice leafy part of our estate when I’m given a bit of a boost. In front of me, coming the other way are my wife and son, both out for an afternoon stroll having set off a few minutes before I did. I give them a wave – I know my wife will be worried, but I’m clearly still alive – smile and tell them I’ll see them somewhere at the top of the hill.

This section is all uphill and it lasts a few minutes. This is going to hurt! My app doesn’t seem to have told me how far I’ve gone and now I can see that there’s a couple of people walking dogs up ahead. Suddenly I’m not focused and I can feel my legs getting heavier as I begin to climb. Late last year, running on the same section, I’d been knocked off my feet by three dogs snapping at my ankles, leaving me caked in mud. I notice that, again, one of the dogs in front of me is off the lead. And it’s some kind of Spaniel – notorious mentalists those dogs. I quickly weigh up my options, but there’s not a lot of choice. I can turn left again and end up on one of the main roads going up a slightly steeper hill or I can keep going and get past this dog. I can’t face a steep climb, so there’s only one thing for it.

As I crest the hill I’m about twenty yards behind the woman walking the dog. The dog is off on the field to my right, sniffing at bushes, but the woman is right on my course in the middle of a narrow path. I get closer and closer, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. It feels like I’m wheezing and panting and my legs are heavy. Now I’m frightened that she’ll think she’s about to be set upon by some heavy breathing pervert. I leave the path and run on the field, risking alerting her crazy dog as well as slipping in the mud, but at the same time allowing her to feel safe from the lycra clad, tomato faced Geordie aerobics instructor that must be quite the most alarming sight she’s seen all day. As soon as I’m round her I veer back on to the safety of the concrete and compose myself. The dog hasn’t noticed me and I can’t hear her sniggering. I’m not caked in mud and everything is fine. The ground is flat and will be for a while. My legs have survived the climb uphill and on reflection, I don’t feel so bad.

I allow myself a glance at my app. It tells me I’ve done just over 2 kilometres. Now what? My path leads me directly to our football fields, but I don’t want to stop now. I’ll do a lap, see how I feel, despite the fact that I know running on a field will sap the energy out of my tired legs.

I’m flagging now. Clearly, my enforced rest has taken its toll. My lower back hurts, my left calf feels like it might cramp up and as I reach down to feel my pulse I can feel that my heart is racing. Reaching for my wrist to feel my pulse has become quite instinctive since being poorly and I’m slightly alarmed at how fast it seems to be going. In the past, I’ve often convinced myself I’ve ran far enough when these type of thoughts happen, but not today. I’m quick to snap myself out of anything negative. I can’t stop now. My back hurt beforehand and of course my heart rate’s up – I’m running. There’s nothing else for it but to press on. I’m settled – however much this hurts I’m going to run 3 kilometres, which will represent the furthest I’ve ran in a long, long time. Let’s get this over with!

I pick up the pace as I reach the path that goes halfway around the bottom football field. I’ll have to run halfway round on the grass, but I’m going to do it. I’ve just done my first lap and a half when my wife and son appear at the top of the path, across the field from me. I try to shout and tell them I’m keeping going, but I haven’t quite got the breath for it, so I just keep running on. My legs are wobbling a little and I’ve not got a lot left, but as I look at my app I realise that about another lap will get me up near my 3 kilometres. As I run down the far touchline I allow myself to think back a few months. I remember being disharged from a ward late at night and making my way tentatively through the hospital to meet my family who I know are outisde waiting in the car. I remember limping out through the automatic doors worrying that I’d cry the minute I saw them. I never did and much to my surprise, I still haven’t.

The detached voice of the running app snaps me out of my thoughts and back to today as it tells me I’ve covered 3 kilometres, averaging just over 6 minutes per kilometre. Wow, I’ve been flying. I’m bloody 46, you know. My son is up ahead, his hand out for a high five. I’m done. I slow up slightly, slap his hand and bring myself to a halt. My hands go to my knees and I double over, before I release myself, spin round and join my wife for the walk home. I want to punch the air. I won’t be able to stop talking about this for hours and she’ll get to hear about every step, poor woman.

It’s a small victory, baby steps, but I feel really, really good. Same again next week.

Fatherhood: falling into the traps I swore I’d avoid.

A little over 12 years ago I became a father. This was something that left me very excited indeed. It was the pinnacle of any achievements I might have had (although I’ll be honest, it didn’t have a great deal of competition). I enjoyed it so much that I did it again a few years after. Again, it felt incredible. It was no less joyful second time round and as expected, fatherhood has given me memories that I’ll take to the grave.

So why do I feel so disappointed in myself as a dad?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for sympathy here and I’m certainly not claiming that I’m a terrible dad. This is not, in any way, a cry for help. We don’t need to increase the hugs. In truth, I’d bet that there are countless dads (and mams/mums/moms) who feel exactly the same as me. Deep down, I know that I’m doing a decent job. I’m there for my children, I try to always set them the best examples and, along with my wife, I’m determined that we create memories for them that they’ll cherish and take into adulthood. I’d like to think I’m preparing them pretty well for the real world.

But the truth is that I find fatherhood a genuinely frustrating job. It seems like the harder I work at it the more frustrated I get. I was going to be a natural. A fantastic father. The don of the dads. The toppermost of the popermost. You get the picture. (If you don’t, tough. I’ve ran out of alliteration). However, despite the best of intentions, it’s rare that I ever really actually feel like this.

‘Me and my kids would inevitably connect – I’d worship them and vice versa’

I love kids. Always did. Funny little people with boundless energy and a unique take on things. It’s a cliché, but a lot of the time I felt like me and kids were singing from the same hymn sheet, intellectually. And so, when I had my own, although I knew it was going to be hard, I felt pretty much over-qualified for the role. Me and my kids would inevitably connect – I’d worship them and vice versa. We’d have fun, we’d learn together, we’d laugh, we’d snuggle up and feel safe and loved and we’d explore the world together. And we’ve done all of these things. But I still feel – and it’s probably every day – that I’m getting it all terribly wrong.

There are a number of things about fatherhood that I think I’m bad at. For a start, I wanted to be patience personified as a dad. I understood that kids would test my patience like perhaps nothing else, but I felt prepared for that. In 2006, when I first became a dad, I’d been working with kids for 5 years. Older kids and other people’s kids, but kids all the same. So I thought I’d probably had my patience tested to its limits. Believe me, if you can listen to a thirty teenagers reading Shakespeare and not explode, you imagine you’ve got patience in spades! So what is it about my own kids that makes me so impatient? If I ask them to do a job – say helping me pick the leaves up off the garden – it’s only a matter of seconds before I hear myself snapping, ‘Oh, I’ll do it myself!’ It’s ridiculous! Rational me realises that they’ll drop some leaves before they get to the garden bin, but grumpy dad just cannot help himself. And what does any of it matter? They’re 12 & 9, of course they’re going to make mistakes. In fact, face it; they’ll be bloody awful at absolutely loads of things. I’m decidedly middle-aged and God knows I lack talent in a myriad of areas. So why can’t I accept it in the two miniature humans that I helped to produce?

So promise number one to my kids – this member of the Middle Age Fanclub will work on his patience. Drop the leaves, it’s fine. Mind you, pick the things up afterwards though. All of them. And quickly!

‘…it really feels like I’m not enjoying what should be the most precious moments with my two most precious little people.’

Perhaps the best thing about having kids is the sheer enjoyment of many of the things that you’ll do with them. And yet, I fear I don’t enjoy my kids anywhere near enough. I have moments of dancing around the kitchen with one of them or snuggling up and watching bad telly with them where I’m fun, loving dad and I’m simply enjoying spending time with them. I’ve baked cakes with them, taken them to the woods to build dens, taken them walking in streams, dressed up for their fancy dress themed birthday parties amongst other things. But I fear that those moments have been few and far between and that when my children look back on their childhood they’ll come to the heart-breaking realisation that it just wasn’t that good when it involved dad. Middle age has made me an adult who tries to think far too sensibly and it really feels like I’m not enjoying what should be the most precious moments with my two precious little people. Meanwhile, their mother (my lovely wife) finds it effortlessly easy to act like a ten-year-old with them – signing, dancing, tickling, play-fighting, gaming…you name it and Fun Mum will have been doing it with them!

I coach my son at football and so quite regularly take him to the field where we’ll work on his finishing (and there you have it – read that sentence back and it can’t be long before you’re asking where the fun is; we’ll work on his finishing indeed). All too often during these sessions I find myself frustrated. I called out ‘Right’ and he went left, his 108th shot of the morning trickled into my arms or he went to control the ball and it slid easily under his foot. Afterwards and even as I’m writing this I’m beating myself up – what does it matter? He’s 9! He’s regularly there for an hour, he must be wiped out. He’s doing all of the running while I play in goal, a largely static position, especially if you’re a fully grown adult and your opponent is 9 years old. He, however, NEVER complains!

Promise number two? Much, much more of fun dad. If you’re shot was a bit weak, well at least it was on target. High five, little man! Now let’s go and have a water fight!

Now you wouldn’t know it if you don’t know me very well, but I love a chat. So when I became a dad one of the things I found myself really looking forward to was my kids learning to talk and being able to have a chat. Like I say, funny little people with a unique take on things – our chats would be long and funny and positively enriching. And both of my children have given me immeasurable joy with some of the chats we had when they were toddlers. Seemingly endless questions about how things worked or what something meant that I was able to give them answers that made them happy, or even better, tell them Dad lies and watch as they completely believed what they were told. Again though, reality bites.

‘Why was she reluctant to talk?’

When my daughter first started primary school I looked forward to picking her up and finding out about her day. She, on the other hand, had other ideas. My daughter has rarely given me chapter and verse about her day, meaning our chats have often been over within a minute. At first this worried me. Why was she reluctant to talk? Was she being bullied? Was she profoundly unhappy with the whole concept of school? So, I read bits and pieces in books. Apparently this was perfectly normal – their day is their property and they’re not always too fond of sharing that with others. She was tired too – including Before and After School Club she’d often been there for over 8 hours; she didn’t want to talk, she wanted to watch CBeebies and have something nice to eat. So gradually, I reigned in my expectations and learnt that any response about her day was better than nothing and that we were chatting after all. We could snuggle up and watch telly together and what did it matter that we hadn’t chatted about phonics or throwing beanbags around in PE? Needless to say though, I looked forward to her getting older and less tired and being able to tell me more.

But here’s the rub. She’s got older and the chats are still often fruitless. Initially, she’d tell me more, but as soon as we got through the door of the house she wanted to leave all things school behind. Home meant food, home meant more television and eventually home meant going up to her room to stare at a screen. We’re repeating the process with my son, who although far more chatty is never engrossed enough in conversation to tear himself a way from a screen for too long. To paraphrase Cliff Richard and at the same time confirm my status as very definitely middle aged, ‘It’s not funny, how we don’t talk anymore.’

My third promise has to be then, to listen to them when they do talk. It’s far too easy to tell my kids, ‘I’m busy’ and to complain that ‘We can’t all just be chained to our phones and X-Boxes all day, you know’, so I need to push things aside and make that time for them, regardless of whether I’m ready or not. It won’t be long before we enter moody teenager faze and then they won’t want to talk at all to uncool dad. So now, whether it’s the latest video posted on ‘Like‘ by my daughter or what my son’s killed on Roblox Jail Break, I’ll do my best to listen intently and pull my interested face. Just like being in meetings at work.

‘I’m immensely proud of my two mini humans’

Another area for improvement in my dad skills (dadding?) is probably with something that we all do. My parents certainly did. However, I need to stop comparing my kids unfavourably to other people’s children. I don’t see enough of other people’s kids to have any kind of comprehensive knowledge, so why do I insist on asking mine things like, ‘Why can’t you be (insert particular quality here) like__________________?’ It’s ludicrous. Don’t get me wrong; I’m immensely proud of my two mini humans. They’re both bright, loving, funny little things so why am I bothered that someone else’s child seems to be – on occasion – brighter, lovelier or funnier. After all, is it not my job to nurture all of these positive qualities in them? My daughter must have spent her entire time while in primary school with me and her mum comparing her to her best friend, with us thinking that some of the qualities said best friend had would magically rub off on our darling daughter. I’m now learning that I can be satisfied with my kids, just the way they are. We can work together on making them fully functioning human beings and if that means ignoring some of the negatives, taking a deep breath or walking away for a bit in order to not blow my stack at them, then that’s what I’ll do.

Next promise – leave them be. My children are amazing and probably no more angelic or irritating than most, so from now on (as much as I possibly can) I’ll cherish what’s there in front of me, not give them the impression that they’d be better off being someone else.

The last fatherhood trap that I’ve definitely and shamefully fallen into is in the response I give when I’m questioned on something. It doesn’t really matter what the question is as long as I’ve already issued the order. The question, Why do I have to turn my tablet off/undo the laces on my trainers/eat my mash before my sausages/put my school bag in that particular place/play on the trampoline/not sit in that chair/not sing/not eat my cereal like that, will always, always be met with the same answer. Altogether now, Because I said so! And it’s the response that usually accompanies the ‘No’ to lots of other questions too!

This response used to infuriate me when I was a kid. Often there seemed no good reason for not letting me do stuff and looking back there really was no good reason. I mean, what harm could I come to by venturing into that cottage made entirely out of sweets that we stumbled across in the forest? Yet my dad especially would always tell me it was No, and because I said so. I hear myself saying it now and often can’t fathom why I’m saying it. I even consciously try to stop myself saying and before I know it, whoops there it is! I guess it’s part control and part trying to keep the kids safe. But I’m sure, with my rational dad head on, my kids can be too well controlled and too protected. Because, surely if I said so, I can just as easily unsay so. Common sense says that if I can unsay the odd because I said so my kids will have at least a little more fun, as well as perhaps enjoying being around their dad some more. And anyway, we haven’t even found a cottage made of sweets in our woods.

So the final promise has to be that I’ll think before I speak. They can eat their sausage before their mash, they can keep their tablet on for a little while longer. They probably can’t go and explore the cottage made out of sweets in the woods, if we find it, and there’s no way in the world, that they can take their trainers off without untying the laces either. No crimes against trainers can be allowed in our house.

And there we have it. Whether it’s a hyper-critical look at my dad skills or whether I really am Victorian dad, changes will be made. My son is nine. We share interests – the scene is set for lots more years of dad and son fun, provided I can relax a little more and enjoy what he brings to the world. My daughter is 12; she has precious few years of her childhood left and I’m going to do my absolute damnedest to help her relax her way through them and enjoy things. And why should she be able to relax? Because I said so!

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Conquering my fears. What’s the worst that could happen*?

Earlier this year I had to go into hospital to undergo a procedure on my heart. A radiofrequency catheter ablation, to make it sound way more important than it probably was. The cardiologist inserted tubes into my veins, via my groin and from there they sort of blasted my heart with radio waves in order to destroy the affected area inside my heart and sort out what was, at the time an abnormal heart rhythm. However you choose to describe it, it was a definite sign of middle age and a ridiculously left field way of making me think about life!

It was a relatively quick procedure, although it actually took just over 2 hours, and I was awake throughout, literally watching the whole process that was happening inside my body on a big screen in front of me. And it was a day that wasn’t without both humiliation and hilarity, all of which just served to confirm that I was indeed getting old. It was in fact so humiliating that I decided that something good just had to come out of it all. Prior to the operation, I was told I would have to shave. Not my face, I hasten to add. Not only was I on death’s door (and yes, I am keeping up that particular line in hyperbole), but they were going to make me face up to it having shaved a big square that went from the top of my legs, over my crotchal region, thankfully avoiding both ~~tiny~~ ~~little~~ mini Graham and the twins, and over my abs…OK, over my middle age paunch. As if my naked body wasn’t horrifying enough, it now looked like I’d not only invented the pejazzle, but got it horribly, horribly wrong.

Next, in order to have the operation I was made to wear not only a surgical gown, but also a big pair of paper pants – please don’t try to imagine this look; it will burn your eyes and leave you unable to sleep for the rest of your days. A lanky, skinny, hairy Geordie in what amounts to a crap dress and paper underwear. It’s amazing that Gay Times haven’t been on the phone throwing money at me for a photo-shoot, really.

I tried to take this whole ‘look’ in good humour, but even then it was traumatising. It felt like the NHS were having a good laugh at my expense, a feeling that was emphasised further when I tried to make a paper pants joke with one of the nurses and she told me that the funniest bit was that they got to cut them off! Again, terrifying. Imagine the poor woman’s disappointment – ‘Ooh, here’s the fun bit’ and then ‘Horror, horror, horror’.

The humiliation took a temporary break though when it was time to start the operation. Being a Geordie I rejected the pain relief and just asked for a matchstick to chew on throughout instead. Actually, I was given a local anaesthetic and morphine and it still hurt! The operation felt like it took forever. I was told to expect to be there for around 45 minutes, but it was only as I watched the digital timer on the wall tick over to 2 hours, ten minutes that I was told it was over. Relief? Well, not quite. In fact, just for fun it was time for a drop more fear coupled with another dollop of humiliation.

I was wheeled up on to the ward and then lifted up, exposing my arse again, and put on to a bed and made comfortable. But, not that comfortable, as it went. I slept for a while, but then woke up, uncomfortable. I read for a few minutes, before falling asleep again.

When I woke up again, something wasn’t right. I felt damp. I sat for a few seconds wondering if it was OK to wet yourself after surgery, whether the nurses would be horrified. And then I cautiously lifted up the sheets to have a look. I’d been bleeding. Just then a nurse came across and I blurted out that I thought I’d been bleeding. She looked, and gave out an audible gasp – not what the patient wants to hear! And so ensued yet more humiliation as two nurses bed bathed me, ripping away and binning my bedding and roughly rubbing away at my nether regions with wet cloths before eventually replacing my dressings and leaving me to rest some more. I’d always imagined any encounter with two nurses in bed to be a whole load more fun that it actually was.

My time on the ward, coupled with the next few days of just resting, gave me a long time to think. And I had quite a bit to think about. (I understand that this is Earth-shattering news to colleagues and friends alike who must find it hard to believe that there are times when I actually think). What should I do now? How did this happen? How poorly was I? And when did I get so old?

As far as I’m concerned I’ve had a brush with death. I know, I know, people suffer a lot worse and I understand that death is more than likely still a long way down the road. So maybe that’s a tad dramatic. But a brush with being quite poorly is not the stuff of blogs and when you’re lying bleeding in a hospital ward, I think you can be forgiven for imagining that the end just might be a bit more nigh (nigher?) than you’d ever imagined. And boy, did I bleed.

‘I’ve not jumped on the bucket list bandwaggon’

So what did I think about? Well, obviously, I wondered a lot about, when I’d got this old. Because old people have heart problems, right? As well as that though, I spent a long time thinking about family and friends, about the way I live my life, the things I’ve done and the things that I’d like to do. Don’t panic, I’ve not jumped on the bucket list bandwagon and God forbid I ever use the phrase road trip. But I came to some conclusions, that I thought I’d let people know about – at least that way some of you might be able to remind me about trying to be nice to people and stuff. And who knows, someone might get all inspired by my brave, brave struggle. Because I have been a very brave boy. I mean, they didn’t even give me a sticker, so you know who to blame for this blog.

One of the first things that occurred to me is that I’m too afraid of stuff. Sometimes I’ve got the hand-brake on and there’s really no need. I don’t mean that I shy away from being some kind of adrenaline junkie. Perish the thought. I’m still not the kind to throw myself out of a plane and tell everyone it was life-changing. It wouldn’t be. It’d just be daft. When I get on a plane I want to just walk down the steps to get off and inevitably think how hot it is in Majorca. No, there are simple things that I don’t do because I’m afraid of looking like a tw*t. So one of first things I thought about was hugs. Yeah, you read that right. Hugs.

I’ve always been very stand-off-ish with hugs. Tactile behaviour in general. I just wasn’t brought up that way and we simply weren’t a very touchy-feely family. We’re from Newcastle, not sunderland. A colleague once slapped my knee because I’d said something they found funny and I nearly jumped off the chair at this off-the-cuff physical contact. And there’s a good reason why I sit at the back in meetings, on my own. But there are many people that I love dearly and it rarely gets shown. So hugs, although it seems a bit silly, are a good starting point. Don’t get me wrong, I do hug my family, but not nearly enough. So the first vow was that they would be smothered with hugs. My wife and kids will be left in no doubt that I love and cherish them. It won’t be immediate, but it’ll be something I’ll work towards. A work in progress, as they say. A work that I think I’m doing quite well at up to this point. I hope they’ve noticed. I mean, what if something terrible had happened and my last hug with them had been days or weeks before?

‘I could have died, you know…’

Fear not friends, the hugs are coming for you too! Form an orderly queue, friends! And let’s not stop at hugs, eh? Let’s link while walking down streets and corridors. Let’s walk into meetings hand in hand. I mean, I could have died, you know…

I also thought a lot about my manner with people. I don’t think that I could ever immediately come across as being very friendly. I’m cynical, sarcastic, maybe even a bit grumpy and I reckon a lot of this comes, again, from being a little bit afraid. This time being afraid of new situations, new people. I think I’m different once I get to know people and vice versa. I love being around friends. I enjoy having a laugh with people and making people laugh. But I can imagine what’s said about me by people who have only just met me. And I have to admit, I’m always quite quick to make a negative judgement myself.

I avoid meeting people where possible. I can’t remember the last time I went on a course for work and it’s not because I think there’s nothing left for me to learn, it’s because I am so uncomfortable around people in general. The idea of walking into some conference room in a budget hotel, knowing no one generally terrifies me and I’d gladly sit on a table all on my own rather than join people and actually attempt a conversation. Ditto, going out for a drink with friends and colleagues. I genuinely worry about someone getting stuck with me and that then ruining their night! And when my son first joined his football team it must’ve taken me at least a month before I even said a cursory ‘Hello’ to any of the other parents. I actually coach the team now and I seem to have become quite friendly with everyone and quite possibly because they had to speak to me as their child’s coach, but God knows what they must’ve thought of me at first when I wouldn’t even stand with them!

‘I want to be seen as a nice bloke.’

While I lay wincing with the pain, wondering what was taking so long and how I’d got so old I gave this a lot of thought. I don’t want to be so cynical or grumpy. I want to be seen as a nice bloke. And that’s genuinely not a cry for attention in the hope that lots of people message me and tell me that I already am a smashing fella. No, it worried me so much that I genuinely thought about what it would be like if I died and came to the frightening conclusion that my funeral would be a horribly quiet affair. My wife and kids, parents, sister and ten or so others rattling around in a church or a hall somewhere looking around and wondering why there aren’t more people helping them get through the day. A terrifying thought, but one that genuinely occurred to me and that really bothers me. So it’s clear to me that I’ve got to make a bit of an effort to be more friendly. Mind you, I still won’t be volunteering to go on any courses for work! There’s a definite limit to being this being approachable lark! I might just give you a hug though.

When I left university, many moons ago, while I wasn’t exactly the most aspirational or ambitious young man, I had definite goals I wanted to achieve. I felt I could be a someone. I was 22 and ready to take on the world. In Ward 19 of the LGI back in April, it occurred to me that I very definitely wasn’t that young man anymore and while I wasn’t a nobody, I didn’t feel at all like a somebody. I felt sad, lonely and really quite scared. But the worst of it came in the days afterwards, resting up, bored and on my own in the house. I felt disappointed in myself and in the way things were turning out for that 22 year old who’d left university believing that he could achieve something special. Why hadn’t I tried harder? When did I give up? Fear again.

I thought about the kind of things I’d fancied doing over the years. Not just fancied doing, but been convinced that I could not only do, but be bloody good at. So off the top of my head, here’s a list of what I’d either fancied doing or had a go at – takes deep breath – write a novel (in fact, write a few), develop some kind of website perhaps revolving round football, try stand-up comedy, coach football, get fit, travel the world (or at least a fair chunk of it), write a sit-com, learn a musical instrument, record some music (in fact, record more music, but that’s a long story), develop the band Pie, do some charity work, become a journalist, master Tai Chi, make a successful podcast, salsa dancing (really), become a Head of English (but, you know, a cool one), work in a prison, develop a futbol de salao franchise, write a Eurovision song, write a Christmas song (we will do both of those songs, David Penny), go vegetarian, go vegan, swinging (just kidding), and join a book group. Twenty four things off the top of my head. The point here being, I’ve rarely really settled at anything. All of these things have occurred to me as ways of breaking the monotony of real life, ways of making my fortune and ways of helping me feel like it’s all worthwhile. Lying in my hospital bed, it all felt worthless. I’d allowed myself to be dictated to by fear. Not only scared of hugs and people, but now scared of trying.

So, I’ve vowed to try harder. This blog is a part of that. It allows me to be creative and hopefully it raises a smile from people who read it. But it has to be just one part of trying harder because in the past, as the previous list reveals, I’ve thought a lot about trying harder, but never really went beyond that. Actually, that’s a bit of a lie. One thing went beyond thoughts and into words that became a promise. At an interview (I can’t remember where) I listed Tai Chi as an interest and talked about it in what must have been a convincing amount of detail to a clearly rapt interview panel. I even went as far as to make a promise to start teaching Tai Chi to staff as a way of de-stressing after work. I got the job, but the Tai Chi classes never happened. The reason why? Not as simple as needing to try harder, really. The reason was that I hadn’t even done Tai Chi at the time. In fact, the Tai Chi video I’d been bought was actually still in the plastic at home! So there we go. I can add vowing to stop casually lying to blogging on the list of vows that I’ll now have to see through!

So two things seems like a decent start and a good place to end this particular episode of insight into middle age. I’m blogging and hugging. No doubt some people reading this will have a bit to say about the kind of bloke who thinks hugging people is significant progress. And you’d be right to a point. It’s nothing life changing, but a definite starting point. Now, where did I put that Tai Chi video?

* Much to my childish delight my cardiologist is called Dr Pepper.