The Writer's Life: You Can Never Truly Retire From Your Passion

 

We live in a world that often treats retirement as the end of productivity. We step away from the world of work, close the door, and are expected to slow down. If we are fortunate, the work we leave behind has been a passion. For some, that is true.

But for many of us, work has simply been a necessity. Bills must be paid, and inflation is constant, with the cost of living on a relentless upward cycle. We adapt because we have to. I cannot honestly say that every job I have had was driven by passion. In my experience, the world of work rarely offers that.

I’m getting closer to what is officially called retirement. The good thing is I do not feel my age.

So what then should retirement be?

As the years move on, and the date gets closer, the question feels less theoretical and more personal. Regardless of how old I may feel, my age requires that I think more about it now. It’s like having a little devil on my shoulder telling me that time is moving on and my choices going forward are limited. It reminds me that time is passing and choices might be narrowing.

Awareness focuses the mind.

For many, retirement conjures images of days of leisure, relaxation, and freedom from the previous work routine. A routine of five days a week, getting up, going to work, and nine to ten hours later getting home, comes to an end.

Traditionally, retirement meant stepping back for good. Once you retire, that is it. No more work. But things are changing now, and not necessarily in a positive way. For one, we are living longer, but often those later years are ones where health matters, for both body and mind, and can become more of a problem.

In recent times, the retirement age has been going up in many countries, simply because people living longer has become less affordable for the state. And people are not always in a position to save for their retirement, or have a generous private pension.

Retirement is no longer the short chapter it once was; provided you are healthy, it can now stretch for decades. That is a lot of time to fill. Fortunately, I am doing well when it comes to health and fitness. But for many, health issues take their toll once we reach our sixties and seventies.

And there are two things about the future that I know with absolute certainty.

The Writer's Life: The Writer As An Observer of Life - A Hospital Visit

 

A writer rarely enters a room without quietly taking notes. Not with pen and paper; that would be too obvious, but with something far more instinctive. I find myself observing what is going on around me, and the potential for a story forms in my mind.

A writer notices the way a conversation develops or stalls, the glance that lingers too long, and the sigh that says more than words ever could. The looks on the faces of everyone in the room, friendly or grumpy, hostile even, every room has its own look and character.

I was in one such room last Friday, when I had to pay a visit to a local hospital. A hospital waiting room is not a place where most people would want to be. Uncertainty about our health takes most of us there, unless you were in support or there to assist someone.

The hospital was busy; they always are, but the first thing I had to do was find the waiting room. Report to Ward 34, I was told by my local surgery. I diligently wrote down the details, including a long abbreviation that must have been code for something. It was the only writing that I had done for a few days.

Ward 34? I began to wonder about all the other wards (33 of them), and then how many more there were after 34. The hospital was a big place. I arrived at the main reception, where I noticed someone, who looked like he might be a volunteer, advising others on where to go.

“Do you know where you need to go to?” He asked.

“Ward 36.” I replied, without realising that I had given the wrong number.

“I’ll take you to the lift. From there you go to the second floor and turn left, and the waiting room for Ward 36 is at the end of the corridor.”

The Writer's Life: When Illness Strikes - The Art and Fear of Being a Writer

 

I recently caught a winter cold, which turned into an infection,  or it came with it, just before Christmas. It was just a cold, or so I thought.

The common cold had taken a backseat in recent times, as COVID-19 got all the headlines. But it has been around a long time; there are about two hundred strains of it. It was just waiting its turn, or a new strain was around. Old or new, I got it from somewhere.

And it was a lingering cold.

A continuous cough is not just something that comes with COVID-19; mine from this simple cold lasted three weeks, and I’m still not over it. The cough pounds away at the rib cage — it’s like going ten rounds with Mike Tyson at his peak.

It all meant that I struggled to write. That’s the way it is when I’m ill. I might have good intentions, that having all that time,  I will write. In reality, that doesn’t happen. Being ill drains any desire to do anything, other than to get over it.

You eat a meal without tasting a bite. You read a message twice and still don’t absorb it. Watch a YouTube video, without taking it in. Somewhere along the way, you forget to write. The hours drag on.

And this is where writing lives.

To be a writer is to exist half a step removed from the world, constantly translating experience into language in a way that, hopefully, someone will like and understand. The writer is always watching, listening, and storing fragments away in the mind for future use. Even in moments of rest, or illness, thoughts are working, shaping sentences, rehearsing conversations, rewriting endings that never happened.

This is the art of it.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Four: Brussels Sprouts and the Mysterious Christmas Pong

 

 

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, traditions, mishaps, and moments — from childhood Christmases of the 60s and 70s to the quirks of celebrating today. Think nostalgia sprinkled with humour, a pinch of honesty, and the occasional whiff of Brussels sprouts. 

Let’s unwrap the season, one story at a time.

 

It’s the mid-1970s, the day before Christmas Eve. It’s a typical British winter scene, as I’m trudging through a thin mist that we hope will deliver snow, but more likely it will rain. I’m on my way to the house of the family who was looking after my dog Lisa—a mischievous animal, with a temperament that suggested she was a law unto herself.

As soon as I stepped inside the front room, I was hit by it.

A smell.

Not a strong one, but the kind that creeps up on you — a sort of lingering, unidentifiable pong that is noticeable and doesn’t go away.

Naturally, my first thought was Lisa.

She was sitting in the corner, looking vaguely guilty in that classic canine way. Her ears were slightly down, as was her head, her eyes avoiding mine. If she were a human, her posture would say, “I’d like to speak to my solicitor.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d left an aromatic surprise, but she had been trained to go outside.

Something felt… off.

How Son of My Father Found Its Name - The Story Behind a Book Title, and a Half-Forgotten Song

In 2022, I wrote a book called Son of My Father.

I remember the moment the title came to me. I was pacing around my home, thinking — searching for a phrase that might hold the whole story together. Titles can be elusive things, they are jotted down, forgotten, some look great, then they don’t. I had a handful of ideas, each discarded for one reason or another. 

None seemed to bring the chapters together in the way I wanted.

At one stage, I had an idea that I felt could really work — to open each chapter with a subheading drawn from a song of the time. A piece of music that had shaped not only my personal experiences, but also the atmosphere of the era I was writing about. I imagined each song acting as a lyrical thread connecting memory, mood, and meaning to the story.

Then reality intervened. Copyright.

Yes, “fair use” might have allowed me to borrow a few lines, but even that felt like a legal grey area. The deeper I looked, the more it became a potential minefield of permissions and costs. Reluctantly, I let the idea go.

Still, once music had entered the conversation, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Songs have a way of unlocking memory, and as I sifted through those from my past, one stood out: Son of My Father, a 1972 hit by Chicory Tip.

I can’t say the band were favourites of mine, nor that the song had any special place in my life at the time. I remember it being played on the radio and Top of the Pops, but I was more into music by T Rex, Slade, Sweet and ELO. Years later, the song — and something in its story — resonated. It felt as though it was an ideal title for the book.

Here’s the song:

I later discovered that the title had been used before — in books, in other contexts — but that didn’t matter. For me, it fit.

Because although my book isn’t solely about my relationship with my dad, he is the presence that runs through it. The man, the mystery. As he left my life almost fifty years ago now, the book is most of what I know about him.

Writing Son of My Father was, in part, an act of discovery — not just about the past, but about what remains when memory fades and imagination takes its place. 

Read more reflections like this here.

 

Image by Tibor Janosi Mozes from Pixabay

My First Television. The Big Box in the Corner

The big box in the corner.

That’s what our first television was called.

It's the early 1960s, and I have a memory of a rather big box that stood in the corner of our rented home.

It had a very small screen.

In fact, the screen was so small that at times a pair of binoculars would have been useful. The room was small, but it seemed to be so far away.

But there was an answer to that — we just moved the sofa and chairs closer to the television.

It was mostly a box, but it had to be.

One day the television stopped working. When that happened, the main way of getting it to work again seemed to be to hit the top of the box. Dad tried that, but it did nothing to solve the issue. The picture remained blank.

He then called in the local repairman, who in due course arrived with his handyman bag of tools.

His first job was to take the back off the big box with a screwdriver. It only took a few minutes for him to decide that one of the valves needed to be replaced. While he was doing that, I had a quick look at what was in the back. Considering the actual screen was so small, I was surprised to see all the valves, transistors and a massive tube.

It surprised me that putting all that stuff together only produced such a small picture.

Looking into the back did show me one thing, though. I had been told by my granddad that all the people who appeared on television actually lived in the back of the television set. Of course, being very young and not knowing anything about how that was possible, I just accepted his expertise on the matter. It never occurred to me that while the box may have been big, it wasn’t that big. They must have been very small people.

The handyman, having changed the valve, then turned the television on. There then followed a wait of several minutes for the set to “warm up” and a picture to appear.

It was like magic.

Money, Money, Money - I'm in the Money. When Money Changes.

  

 

   Money was different when I was a boy.

It really was different. 

It actually changed when decimalisation was introduced in the UK on 15 February 1971. The old currency system of pounds, shillings, and pence was replaced by a decimal system where the pound was divided into 100 new pence.

New coins were introduced from that date, although some had been in circulation two to three years prior.

Here is a list of the old money, coins and notes that were in issue when I was a lad. 

Ha’penny: A coin that was worth 1/2 of a penny. 

There were times when I had a lot of these, often saved in a jam jar.

Penny: A coin that was worth 1 penny. It was also called a copper. 

There was a time when I would regularly take beer bottles back to the local off-licence shop and be given a penny for each. The bottle returns were a valuable source of income for a young lad back then. Mind you, I think it is possible that quite a few adults were wondering why I was encouraging them to drink more. 

Also, the name of Miss Moneypenny in the Bond films.

Thrupence: A coin that was worth 3 pence. 

Known as a joey, but I don’t remember ever calling it that. A twelve-sided coin with character. Having some of these was a step up from the humble penny.

Tanner: A coin that was worth 6 pence. 

The coin was small, silver, and shiny. From what I can remember, it was very easy to lose, especially if you had a hole in your pocket. I suppose that the modern-day equivalent would be the five-pence coin.

It was sometimes referred to as an “Elsie”, after a character named Elsie Tanner in the popular television soap, Coronation Street. Well, that’s what it was called in our house.

A Journey Back in Time to a Summer Job That Helped Fund My Holiday.

When I was a young boy, my mother set me a challenge. It was during the long school holiday one year, and she was hoping to keep me busy and out of her way.

The challenge was that if I did a certain amount of housework and errands over the following seven days, I would be rewarded with ten shillings.

Ten shillings was a lot of money back then, in the early 1970s. It was equal to fifty pence today, but it bought you a lot more. 

For a young boy, it was a big deal, and I would either be paid in coins or a “ten bob” banknote.

The Writer's Life: A Journey Down Memory Lane. Wiping Away Errors, the Tipp-Ex Way

                                              

Until recently, I was not aware that Tipp-Ex, the correction fluid, was still available.

I have not used it in years.

There was a time when I was a regular user. It was a necessity.

For me, that was in the days of pen and paper, long before the arrival of the personal computer and laptop. And for some time after they became available, they were expensive to buy, as was a typewriter or word processor.

I tried using a typewriter, but I soon discovered that I was never going to master it.

I was left with a pen and paper.

But before Tippex, writing anything could be problematic, as mistakes stood out.

At school, most of the time, I did not know that I had made a mistake. My English teacher was the grammar checker. She would return my essays with many red marks and notes in the margin.

She would comment that I needed to improve in certain areas.

“Could do better.”

So many boys had the same three words written on their essays.

One day I noticed that a friend of mine had a little white plastic container. He was applying, via a small brush, that was part of the lid top, a white liquid to his essay.

Once dried, you could write over any mistake.

Maybe with this magic liquid I could do better?

Of course, you do have to know that you have made a mistake, and checking words using a dictionary was very time-consuming. More so if the alternative was being outside playing football with my mates.

When I Was a Lad: Billy's Boots, a Blast From the Past.

I was on Twitter X the other day, when I came across a post about the comics that were a big part of life for children back in the 1970s. The question was asked, how many did you buy? There was a picture of the comics available at the time. Not sure if it was all of them, but there were a lot. 

Most of them were for boys, some, Sally, Bunty, and Diana, for girls. There must have been more available for girls, surely?

Here it is.

It's an impressive number. The ones that I bought regularly were the Beano and Dandy. I think every kid bought those, or had parents who were generous enough to pay for them.

I also remember Look-in, Joe 90, Marvel and Spider-man. Most of the names are familiar to me, and the chances are that I occasionally bought them. It has to be said, though, that I couldn't afford to buy all the ones that I wanted. And the local newsagent didn't always have the new ones in stock. I assume he only wanted the comics on the shelf that he knew would sell.

I don't remember ever seeing Terrific, or School Fun, though.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Eight: There is No Boxing on Boxing Day.

When I was a lad, I would wonder why Boxing Day was called Boxing Day? 

No one in my family had an answer to it. 

I came to what I thought was a logical conclusion at the time that it must be named after the sport of boxing. But I also wondered why it was that on Boxing Day there was actually no boxing on the television. Not only that, but I would just be laughed at if I asked what time the boxing was on.

Then one day at senior school, in England a Secondary Modern, I was in the library, but not because as a young teenager I had any great interest in books at that age. No, the librarian was a rather attractive German lady, who had short blond hair which may or may not have been natural. She also wore short dresses, the mini skirt being quite popular back then. 

The library was often quite busy when she was on duty. 

On this day, I plucked up the courage to ask her the Christmas question that had been on my mind. Well, it was on my mind every Christmastime. 

The conversation went something like this.

“Miss, can you tell me why Boxing Day is called Boxing Day?”

She gave a friendly smile, got up out of her chair and said, “follow me.”

How could I refuse?