Fate has a funny way of intervening just when you’d thought you would never find the time to get that second book under way.
One of my most stubborn enthusiasms has long been working out at the gym. Not that I was ever some Herculean, muscle-bound type but rather, at the age of 56, I simply refuse to grow old any faster than is absolutely necessary. I push a fair weight for an old fellow if I must say so myself and nowhere is this more true when I’m doing legs, which have always been my particular strong point.
I say always, because that rapidly changed the Wednesday before last when my right foot inexplicably slipped off the plate just as I was in the middle of my third set of calf extensions, the resultant sudden trauma to my left leg leaving me with a ruptured Achilles tendon and the prospect of spending the next five weeks in a hospital cast boot which, most irritatingly of all, I must wear even in bed.
Many things that I had intended to do must now fall by the wayside. My expedition to Snowdon, planned for two weeks’ time, is still to go ahead but if I even go near the mountain it will be with a view to catching the passenger train up to the top, and then back again to the bottom. And whilst the need to earn a living dictates that I still find myself struggling up to London on my crutches two to three times each week, most of the other things I’d planned to do which cannot be done from a horizontal position have been shelved.
So it’s on with my second book, which I’d hoped would be on its way to the publisher by now but which is alas still in the very formative stages.
I can’t give much away, but there won’t be much to compare with The Best Year Of Our Lives. It’s of an entirely different format and genre, and much less exciting but is one which nevertheless has to be written before I can hope to progress with my new-found vocation. More on this anon.