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.

​When I lived and worked full-time in London, I would sometimes get up very early to drive the half hour to my local course and play nine holes of golf, before taking the Tube to the office. Usually, I was quite alone out there, apart from the rabbits and the birdies (circling overhead, rarely on my scorecard).

Despite the early hour, I found it therapeutic and used the time on the fairways to switch off from domestic and work-based worries, which would surely follow me around just as a missed putt follows an excellent approach shot. Just enjoying being out on the course, fresh with morning dew, was a wonderful opportunity for ‘mindfulness’ before everyone started calling it that.

If I thought myself lucky enough to be able to go and enjoy those snatched moments of early-morning calm in a busy, urban life – and, yes, by about four o’clock my eyes were struggling to stay open -  I feel truly blessed now. I look out from my office window towards sheep in fields bordered by trees, and the Malvern Hills as my backdrop.

Beyond the woods is a golf course, just seven minutes away by car. On most days, I can decide if I want to go and play – still on my own – and can book a tee time to suit my writing schedule. I have earned the freedom to be able to make those choices.

Perhaps this is why the staff at a nearby golf shop treat me in the way that they do.

In my father’s day – and certainly my grandfather’s – older people were generally respected because of what they’d achieved in life, the knowledge and experience they’d absorbed and could pass on to others.

Ranging from early 20s to early 30s, the men in this shop – and they are all men, strutting and full of the testosterone they are expected to convey as ‘sports professionals’ – each, without fail, turns away as I approach them to either pay for something or (what were you thinking, Mark?) ask them simple questions.

If they do bother to look me up and down with well-rehearsed disdain, they can barely grunt incoherent responses, and are generally clueless with emails and other contact details they are expected to harvest in order to issue ‘loyalty’ cards.
If the digital till is faulty, their mental arithmetic skills come to the fore, and I might even have made it out of a bunker in the time it takes for them to add things up incorrectly.

I have (very little) grey hair; I am not especially brash and self-confident, and I suppose I don’t fit their pre-conceived type of what golfers are supposed to look like.

Being older is certainly not something they want to contemplate, either personally or existentially. The justification for their rudeness is that I am simply not worth cultivating any kind of long-term relationship with.

I believe, though, that it is the fact I have that freedom which irks them the most, no matter that I have had to work extremely hard in often thankless, toxic environments to be able to visit their little fiefdoms.

I may not strut, but I can speak articulately and add things up in my head. Unfortunately, I’ve had lots of practice at that because of the number of errant shots over the course of my life!

​My doctor has just phoned to chat through some blood test results.

I had already seen them via the medical records section of the health app on my phone, but he wanted to talk with me directly. The appointment was made for 10.30. He phoned at 12.50. He knows that I know he may well have faced all kinds of unexpected and urgent queries this morning and had to make potentially life-changing decisions regarding his other patients.

He is, of course, an expert, but also friendly and empathetic. I was pleased that he still wanted to talk to me in person, not just relying on the technology to supply the information correctly and promptly in tandem with my desire to seek it out directly and knowing how to do so.

At my age, I imagine the latter two requirements might not always be so reliable!

On Sunday evenings, when I was a little boy, we used to gather around the television to watch Dr Finlay’s Casebook. I loved the uplifting music as the fictional Scottish town of Tannochbrae came into view. Mysteries of the medical profession were dealt with by experts who were also friendly and empathetic (well, maybe a bit craggy occasionally), and the stories always had happy endings - as required by BBC guidelines at the time, and timeless, unwritten rules of successful fiction.

Doctors Finlay, Cameron and Snoddie rarely had to interact with such non-medical technology as the house telephone, which they left to their far more than capable housekeeper, Janet. I have been very lucky to have a Janet in my life for almost 40 years, who is also called Michelle. Her hair isn't white and she isn't Scottish, but she keeps everything up and running - including me!

The doctors were mobile, but didn’t hide behind handsets; imparted knowledge from the stored information in their memories, made decisions based on their own brains’ ability to quickly process information. Their very presence was reassuring.

I was only 11 years old when the series finished and, like the ubiquitous doctors in bow ties and waistcoats from Sunday afternoon matinees who were sent for in the middle of dark nights lit by thunderstorms, carrying impossibly large medical bags, faded into black and white.

I have embraced new technology in every period of my life since then. As a writer, the online tools available to me today for information searching, grammar checking and marketing improvements run happily alongside the hundreds of books sitting on my shelves, still offering guidance and confirmation that I am on the right track.

My doctor told me I was on the right track this morning. Sometimes, just hearing someone say the words is as important as the words themselves, isn’t it?
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Tannochbrae will never come back; I won’t ever be 11 again. But, if under-resourced, overworked NHS doctors still value friendliness and empathy as much as the technology we all use to get answers these days, the question has to be: why doesn’t everybody else?