Well. Having recovered from injuries sustained in what was a pretty nasty motorbike accident, I suddenly realised that ‘tomorrow’ is never actually a given. At 61 years of age, I consider myself extremely fortunate to have recovered as well as I did. So, I figured that now must be the time for me to try and see a bit of the world. You know, tick a few places off the old bucket list. I'm writing this as I sit in the blissful Mediterranean sunshine which bathes the beautiful Island of Malta on a nigh-on daily basis.

I’m very grateful to all the medical experts at Royal Stoke University Hospital’s major trauma unit. They are the highly skilled professionals who helped me through what was a pretty horrible experience. The team possessed the right tools and talents to put old Humpty together again.

Thankfully, they did just that. The anesthetist knocked me out with a powerful cocktail of happiness potions and mercifully, I woke up seven hours later with a number of metal plates and screws carefully inserted into my abdomen. These things hold my pelvis together in places where that job was once done by solid bone and cartilage.

It probably looked like an episode of Bangers & Cash in that operating theater; but I was the old banger, not a rusty old Triumph Herald.

My subframe was all twisted, buckled and bashed but when most people would have seen a basket case, the folks at Royal Stoke Hospital saw a damage-repairable. Easy - when you know how.

Of course, the surgeon told me that there was a very small chance that my heart could stop during the procedure. Consultants seem to take delight in frightening the living daylights out of their patients. But I figured that if (or when) I actually ever make it over to Botswana on safari, there’s an equally small chance that I might be eaten by a hippopotamus. The difference is, my travel agent won't be gleefully pointing these pitfalls out quite as dramatically as my Consultants did. I guess medical risks are mitigated and therefore probably worth taking. Not that I had much choice if I wanted to walk properly again.

Frightening

What was most frightening of all was what came ¬after I left the hospital. The physiotherapy, the getting on with things on my own without having a team of dedicated nurses on hand 24/7. Not only that, because I’m a bit on the porkier side of the spectrum, I was provided with advice on how to manage my diet from here on in. A sort of biblical handbook of self-imposed, post-operative dietary virtuousness which excludes any sort of debauchery or fun.

According to the leaflets (because I'm a tubster) I must now embrace a pious and morally superior sort of dietary existence characterised by purity, abstinence and sobriety. It's all about eating kale and brown rice followed by a daily routine of pilates and yoga. If anyone should ever bother inviting me to a convivial gathering again, you'll probably find me sitting all by myself in a quiet corner with a glass of mineral water in one hand and a lettuce in the other. Eventually, you'll see me scurrying off home to my orthopedic bed at around 8.30 pm. Alone.

You'd probably never guess but I actually used to work as a property developer. I really enjoyed it. It was our family business so I did everything from accounts, general administration to doing a bit of fetching and carrying. I even drove the dumper truck and operated the JCB. Jeff Bezos looks positively idle compared to me.

Work or health?

But, with at least twelve to eighteen months of recovery time ahead of me, my job had to play second fiddle. The reality of facing a lengthy road to recovery trumped all other considerations. At 59 I was no spring chicken, it was a case of what’s most important, work or health?

Luckily, I was in a good financial position. I was working because I wanted to not because I needed to. I faced the reality that the fruits of one’s labours become superfluous without the presence of a healthy mind and body. Priorities were clearly a no-brainer. The question was, what on earth would occupy my time once I was back on my feet?

Golf? No chance! I cannot abide anything whatsoever to do with golfing. Plus, I'm utterly rubbish at it.

I'm no house-husband either, any more than I was a “new man” during the 1990’s. Nappies filled with baby poo still make me gag! I'm far too much of a male chauvinist and narcissist to suddenly don a pale blue gingham pinny and morph into Mrs Mop - even out of sheer boredom. And by the way: No! I don't think housework is just for women. All I know is that it's not for me.

Retirement wouldn’t be so bad if only I had a hobby. But I’ve never really had one. That's because I always thought that hobbies are generally the preserve of geeks and anoraks. I guess this explains why I’ve never owned Meccano or a Hornby train set. I can't play the guitar or the trombone either and I sure as hell can't sing. I'm utterly talentless and plainly cack-handed.

Credits: PA;

Diet sheet

But, by far, my biggest old age issue is my latest diet sheet. It's a carefully crafted document designed to help cut down the chances of heart disease or stroke. However, the main side-effect of this low cholesterol diet is that of chronic boredom. Basically, I need to forsake ¬everything I actually ever enjoyed eating.

Alcohol is not allowed because it apparently makes people fat. But I’ve been thinking. Why deny myself all the good things in life? What was the point of actually recovering from that horrible bike accident if staying alive now means eating a diet of lentils and couscous? I may as well just eat sawdust with bits of dried apricots thrown in for good measure.

In a few short weeks I’ll turn 62. When I saw the Grim Reaper admiring my son's KTM motorbike from the grass verge, I decided that living a little longer might be a considerably better option than what old Skeletor had to offer.

I'm writing this piece on the beautiful island of Malta. Sunrise over Valletta this morning was a magical sight, so I’d quite like to see a bit more of that sort of thing if at all possible.

To achieve such humble aspirations, I don't think that a diet of steamed chicken and pulses is what’s really needed to keep my pulses going. I can’t see any real advantage in eating a diet of health-giving gruel and forsaking every epicurean delight that have made my days special for over six whole decades. An extended life of pure misery might just feel like it's a long life. Time flies when we're actually enjoying ourselves!

Author

Douglas Hughes is a UK-based writer producing general interest articles ranging from travel pieces to classic motoring. 

Douglas Hughes