Curtains for retirement dream even before auditions - Kevin Page


Last week the Earth went round the sun once again and I turned 63.
No brass band, no surprise party, no telegram from the King. Just another birthday, another candle count that requires a little more breath than it once did and another reminder that time has a habit of accelerating when nobody is looking.
The older I get, the more fascinated I become by the mathematics of age. Not because I was ever particularly good at maths, but because the numbers begin playing tricks on your mind.
Consider this little gem.
I was born in 1963 but recently I stumbled across a picture of me on my ninth birthday in 1972 which is why it’s a bit front and centre right now. I’m sitting on the back step of our house in England with one of those birthday cakes shaped into a number.
Then it occurred to me: 1972 is as close to 1918 as 2026 is to 1972.
Read that again if you need to.
When I first worked it out, I suspected either the calculator in my brain was broken or civilisation itself had become unhinged. Yet when I did find the calculator on my phone, there it was: 1972 is as near to the end of World War I as it is to today.
That sort of calculation has a way of sneaking up on you. One minute you’re the young fellow rolling his eyes at older people’s stories. The next you’re telling someone that television sets once had only one channel and expecting them to be impressed rather than concerned.
Turning 63 inevitably prompts a little stocktaking.
Retirement, for example, has become less of an abstract concept and more of a genuine calendar item lurking somewhere over the horizon. For decades, retirement seemed like something that happened to other people. Elderly neighbours. Former teachers. Men who wore cardigans and discussed garden edging.
Now I find myself reading retirement articles with alarming interest.
Do we have enough money?
What will we do?
How many hobbies can one person realistically sustain before becoming unbearable to friends and family?
These are questions I never gave much thought to at 43.
Life, however, has a way of clarifying priorities.
This year cancer has done precisely that for me.
There is nothing particularly noble or enlightening about my illness. Mostly it is tedious. It involves appointments, waiting rooms, medications and conversations you’d rather not be having.
What cancer has done, though, is remind me that plans are fragile things.
This year it stopped me attending No 1 Son’s wedding. It kept me away from my mum’s funeral. It prevented me from being able to give our new grandson – or any of the six we have for that matter – a simple hug.
Missing all three big events in the same year feels somewhat unfair, although I appreciate the universe has never shown much interest in my opinion on fairness.
Still, disappointment has an interesting relationship with gratitude.
I was disappointed to miss those events. Equally, I remain grateful I’m still above ground and kicking when, but for a matter of weeks, I could have been pushing up daisies somewhere.
Perspective does not eliminate sadness, but it does stop sadness from becoming the whole picture.
At 63, I’ve learned that life rarely unfolds according to schedule. The future becomes a negotiation between optimism and realism.
Perhaps that is why retirement planning feels different now.
The financial side matters, of course. Anyone telling you otherwise is either independently wealthy or delusional.
But increasingly I find myself planning not just for how long I’ll live, but how well I’ll live. What experiences still remain unexplored? What ambitions have sat quietly in the corner waiting their turn?
Which brings me to a long-running domestic disagreement.
For years I have thought it would be good to try a bit of acting.
Not chasing Hollywood stardom, you understand. Just a bit of local theatre stuff.
A community theatre production perhaps. A small role. A few lines. The opportunity to discover whether the dramatic talent I occasionally display during household disagreements could translate to the stage.
Sadly, this dream has always encountered vigorous resistance from Mrs P.
Acting, she believes, inevitably leads to, er, “relations” with fellow cast members. I gather she has seen this first-hand, so no amount of reassurance seems capable of shifting this position.
I have explained that most community theatre productions are held together by volunteers, determination and instant coffee.
Still unconvinced so I didn’t push it.
Finally, after years of debate, she recently delivered her definitive response as we discussed possibilities for retirement.
In fact, she raised it.
Surprised, I reminded her of her long-held belief the theatre was “unhelpful” for relationships.
Then she said, “Honestly. Have you seen yourself lately?”
And just like that, my acting career received its most memorable review before auditions had even begun.
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