Grumpy Oldie Man

Dying alone – my second greatest fear

A lonely death is better than a heart attack in my local supermarket matthew norman

For those d’un certain âge who live alone, a time comes when the fear that has been murmuring for a while becomes a deafening holler.

It concerns mortality, of course, although not the plain fact of it. It’s a little late for that because, while – in the absence of serious disease – the goyim can postpone fretting about death until middle age, the Jew tends to be more precocious.

This Jew first became convinced that the end was imminent at 18, on the discovery of a water swelling on the left ankle. As all decent hypochondriacs and some GPs will know, such an oedema could be symptomatic of many things (or nothing). Among these is the congestive heart failure, which I duly self-diagnosed.

Eventually, after 12 months of sheer panic, a consultation ended with the doctor declaring that while she was willing to refer me, it would be to a psychiatrist rather than a cardiologist. When I woke up the next day, the swelling had vanished.

Forty years on, concerns of the kind are less fanciful. To live as I have is to send an embossed invitation to a myocardial infarction.

While we solo dwellers mask such worries as best we can, there are continual reminders about the perils of having no one to call the ambulance.

Not that the ambulance would necessarily arrive within a fortnight. But it would be awfully nice, you get to thinking, if there was someone on hand at least to make the request.

It could be a minor slip when you’re getting out the bath that does it. What if you went down hard, took a crack to the temple, and were obliged to remain on the floor until the beguiling aroma of decomposing flesh alerted a neighbour?

Alternatively, it might be a meaningless twinge in the chest, an arthritic ache in the arm or a dentally sourced pain in the jaw. defibrillators are equally available, and start at little over a grand.

Such cynics will always be with us. Yet rather than wonder whether a company recently valued at over £7bn has the wherewithal to correct this deficit if it so chose, let us instead rejoice at a dazzling display of a quality in even scanter supply than certain batteries.

If these last months have left you craving a renaissance of unbridled optimism, behold the management of Morrisons. In a world beset by gloom and despair, God love and spare these blue-sky thinkers.

At this point, I should probably insert a caveat. I am not a cardiologist. I’ve never seen a cardiologist, in fact, despite a dodgy ECG that led to an echocardiogram.

So I am in no position to state definitively that Morrisons is misguided in its faith that the optimal treatment for cardiac arrest is a brisk walk of almost a mile to a tube station.

They might be right; they might be wrong. Until an unknown customer, perhaps Mr L A Zarus, gives it a try, we may never know.

Either way, that sign has done wonders for the spirits. For one thing, in an era so sadly shorn of good manners, the politesse of the concluding sentence came as a tonic:

‘Apologies,’ it read, going that extra almost-mile for customer care, ‘for any inconvenience caused.’

And secondly, even though it momentarily heightened it to a holler, it has since quieted the terror outlined above.

No longer is dying alone the ultimate fear. Not compared with perishing in aisle three of Morrisons, Chalk Farm Road, with the very last words heard in this life being those of a deputy manager apologising to the newly deceased for the inconvenience.

In my case, a few days ago, it was none of the above. It was a trip to Morrisons.

Out of love and reverence for my late father, in no way will I criticise this supermarket chain. My dad not only held shares in the firm but also spent untold merry hours raiding its Chalk Farm branch for two-for-one offers (returning, on one occasion, with a lifetime’s supply of some herbal remedy for menstrual cramping).

Even filial loyalty has its limits, however, and these were sorely if briefly tested on the weekly foray to replenish my mother’s dwindled reserves of blended whisky and other household essentials.

As I queued at the checkout, the eye was caught by a sign affixed to a box on the back wall. ‘Please note that this defibrillator is currently out of order due to a global battery shortage,’ it began. ‘Your nearest working defibrillator is located at Camden Town Underground station.’

We’ll come to the sign’s majestic final line in good time. For now, let it be stated that Morrisons must be taken at their word.

No doubt some will speculate that the recent takeover has led to the savage cost-cutting one fondly associates with private-equity buy-outs.

Glancing at Amazon, others may note that: (a) many such batteries can be delivered in days; and (b) brand-new

‘That boy demolished my castle and redeveloped the area’