Fifty-two years ago, our shiny, silver transistor radio stopped talking or singing to us. It hadn’t fallen off its perch, but it was dead, all the same.

The ‘new’ radio had, in turn, replaced a beloved black wireless set that my parents had brought to the house from their first marital home (a tiny, draughty cottage) in the late 1950s, just before I was born. It had proudly occupied a pride of place on a shelf just above the kitchen table. No matter that my mother never had enough shelf space for pots and pans, the wireless was not for moving until, like the new radio, it didn’t.

And so, in early 1973, another new radio was ordered from the mail order catalogue. Now at ‘big school,’ and having helped steer them through decimalisation earlier that year, I was allowed to have a say in the purchase. My parents waited patiently until I returned home one wintry afternoon for the big unveiling. Black and chunky, it also housed a mechanism not seen in our home before, nor in many other houses in our village.

Yes, we were now the proud owners of our first radio cassette recorder.

My father was relieved that we had gone back to a black set, although he did frequently point out that transistors were no match for valves in terms of tone, as well as reminding us often that the ‘World at One’ now carried news stories in from the outside world that were much worse than they used to be. As for the weather…

I took all of his points on board and just as quickly dismissed them now that I could record the Top 40 on Sunday evenings on my new C120 cassette tapes. I still break out in a sweat when I remember having to quickly and efficiently turn over the tape after the first hour of the programme. Much more than that, though, the new machine came with a portable microphone, which even had its own little stand if your, as yet, small fingers grew tired of holding it.

I could now record chart songs from Top of the Pops on Thursdays, my own voice and even those of other people! I didn’t have many friends, so it was mainly mine. After all, I’d had a say in it.

Recording songs was hazardous, not just because of the recording levels required and consequently deafening volume of the TV set, but because, by crawling towards it stealthily from behind on my tummy to reposition the microphone over and over, the pile on the carpet frequently caused it to fall over. By the time I had it set up perfectly again, the song I’d wanted had finished, and I/it was recording something I’d never listen to.

I’ve been thinking back to this a lot lately, and nothing to do with carpet burns. I am producing audiobook versions of my fiction titles from the Inspector Harcourt crime mystery series. ‘The Proofreader’ is already available from Audible and is shortly to be joined by ‘Water, Slaughter Everywhere.’

I now possess a beautiful Samson microphone, which is also black, and sit quietly in my room in rural Worcestershire, talking to myself for hours! I cheerfully tell my wife I am going into the ‘studio’ to ‘lay down some tracks.’ The studio is, of course, the dining room, but I refer to it as the ‘library’ when I am not recording, and she isn’t listening.

Those early pioneering years are often revisited when, struggling with some aspect of ‘noise floor’ on the real Audacity studio on my PC, I accidentally knock the microphone over and have to start all over again.
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So much for progress…

We all remember them, don’t we?

The girl with a speech impediment, the boy who couldn’t walk properly, and another boy who smelled awful.

Each was subject to not-so-secret smirks, outright ridicule or bullying throughout their childhoods.

Because they sounded, looked or smelled different to the rest of us.

The sensitive side of me felt sorry for these children, but not enough to openly stand up for them. Any clumsy attempts on my part to befriend any of them were made when others weren’t around and, in any case, were promptly rejected. They had already developed a hardness, a protective layer that would limit some of the damage, but not all.

I was rather otherworldly as a child. Not physically different, although I rarely felt part of the crowd and was excluded by the invite-only gangs. I was tortured by unrequited love from a distance, as girls preferred the bravado of bullies to the strange daydreams I inhabited much of the time.

I never understood what was wrong with me. Only in later years did I come to realise that nothing was. I was just different.

My wife Michelle is working at the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon at the moment, which is handy as it’s just down the road (and hill) from where we live. This week, we went to see Adrian Lester take on the lead role in Cyrano de Bergerac.

Those same themes of exclusion, loneliness and identity forged by others’ perceptions of physical attributes rather than the real person within were exposed in a fantastic production, breathtakingly captured and acted superbly by all of the actors, but especially Adrian.

The character’s inherent insecurity leads to an outwardly self-confident bravado that is not matched by a lifelong desire from within. A desire not to be different. Something that can never be the case.

Some politicians – elected by the people, for the people – bemoan the lack of white people on the streets of some of our cities and hide it behind words their well-paid advisors have suggested, such as ‘integration.’ Born in Birmingham to Jamaican immigrants, they would presumably include Adrian in this.

Adrian can leave the prosthetic nose in his dressing room at the end of each performance, but he can’t change out of the colour of his skin. Undoubtedly a genius, and yet, quite unfathomably, doubts remain.

He is as British as I am. What more can he do? What more should he have to do?

We remember them all, don’t we? During the years that have come between us, rather than just observing, as a child, I hope I have at least learned to question why people, who appear to be different, behave in the way that they do. What childhood diseases befell them; what adult experiences have subsequently shaped their lives?

What unsatisfied desires have condemned them to perhaps arrogance, even violence, toward others – in words and actions – or quiet self-loathing forged early in the twin furnaces of loneliness and anxiety?

Edmond Rostand wrote Cyrano de Bergerac in 1897. A neo-romantic, his fine words resonate just as readily today.

Unfortunately, there is too often a fine but uncrossable line between who we are and who we really want to be. It's great to celebrate difference, but so much harder to do if you find yourself already condemned by it.

I’ve had a stressful couple of weeks.

I know that I am luckier than many people, and this feeling is nothing compared to the stressful forty years of full-time work, but, then again, those strains were all to do with processes and deadlines, the employee, not the individual.

No matter the failings of others as well as my own, the responsibility for delays, disruption or outright disasters was mine. I was judged purely by what I did or didn’t achieve for the company.

I liked my job but hated the positioning. A lot of ‘professionals’ are defined by such labels, aren’t they?

“What do you do?” is the opening gambit in so many business and social situations, where manoeuvering to get ahead of canapés and competitors is the unfunny game we are forced to play.

Not anymore.

Whether as a direct result of all those years of hiding or not, my blood pressure levels were raised. I’ve taken medication for this for some years now. With genetics also causing high cholesterol, I am tested fairly regularly. This is obviously a good thing, and ‘free’ thanks to paying into the system for so many years.

However, each test is a reminder that things may not always be rosy in retirement.

We have a financial plan in place, but all that planning is more likely to come to an abrupt end now rather than at any other time in my life. I know that this is relative, but the reality is that although time has always been running out, there’s definitely going to be less of it left now – all other things being equal – than when I started my first graduate job in London all those years ago.

Shaking off that label means that I have more time to walk and play golf, as well as rowing for miles and miles in our (warm and dry!) garage, to maintain my physical fitness.

I am finally able to express myself without fear of pointed comments or smug little put-downs and can now tell my stories. I have writing plans and publishing windows in place, but they could be closed and sealed shut at any time.

The doctors discovered something they didn't like the look of, but the retests then came back as ‘normal.’ I suppose this is a bit of a victory in itself, as that was very definitely never a label assigned to me in all my years of working for other people…

The point is, though, that one day I will get a ping on my phone: a text announcing that my results really are ‘out of range.’ It will be the beginning of the end.

I was reminded recently of that great quote by Confucius: “We have two lives, and the second begins when we realise we only have one.”

I’m loving that second life, and I absolutely understand that I am standing on the building blocks forged by the first. I am living every second of it in terms of fun and relaxation in the sunshine and glorious fresh air, as well as continuously learning from people and places (and hopefully a few small achievements here and there).
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We’ve made it into the End Zone; we've earned the right to be here. And yet, there is no greater affront to human rights than the knowledge that, one day, what we consider to be normal is no longer the case.