AND f inally

OH DEAR. ANTHONY MARTIN CAN ’ T GET INTO HIS BRIGHT ORANGE STRIPED LINEN TROUSERS. MAYBE IF HE EXERCISED A LITTLE INSTEAD OF COMPLAINING, HE ’ D LOSE THAT TUM AND BE FAR MORE ATTRACTIVE TO THE LADIES

Y FRIENDS and I are of a certain age, and being that age we tend to slow down, creak a little and even feel the occasional twinge, but we need to accept it or do something about it; either way we have to stop continuously talking about it; right now when we sit at a table and eat together, it’s the only topic of conversation. We talk of our symptoms, the operations we have had, the ones we might need now, and those we will probably need in the future.

It’s only the golfing friends who appear fit. Never mind an apple-a-day keeping the doctor away, it’s obviously all that clomping over fairways, greens and bunkers while swinging the arms around that does it.

Not so long-ago, we men discussed all manner of things: women, sport, women, travel, family matters, women. So when, and more importantly how, did we seamlessly shift from sex, drugs and rock ‘n’roll to artificial hips? If this is the consequence of retirement – I want out.

That’s the problem, we need to keep interests and activities alive. We need subjects to discuss, argue and dissect; vibrant subjects. That way, my eyes will stop glazing over as the table conversation switches to a monologue on the technique of mitral valve replacement.

This preoccupation with declining health is decidedly not healthy. So, needing to redress my personal balance, halt the decline and regain my vitality, to say nothing of my waistline, I bought a treadmill, which now takes pride of place in the guest bedroom standing next to the static bike, the free weights and the yoga mat, all waiting to be used.

Discipline, being the most important part of an exercise regime, means that at precisely 8:30 each Monday, Wednesday and Friday you will find me wearing my pristine trainers and polishing my pristine machines whilst coming up with yet another reason not to get all sweaty and breathless.

I’m doing well at this, even the serried ranks of trousers in the wardrobe have yet to galvanise me into action. There they hang, carefully arranged in order of size, smallest to the left and going up incrementally to three sizes larger on the right, while I resolve that one day I shall be able to pick from the left. The trousers of days gone by. The skinny ones, the baggy ones, even the bright orange striped linen ones. But most importantly, they were all one size.

That, in a nutshell, is my present problem – my waist. I had a working one for years. It was there a while ago, but now it’s gone. How did this happen? How is this possible? How can a waist that, for so many years held up countless pairs of trousers – from drainpipes to flares –suddenly renege on its duties? Not only is it unfair, but it’s also embarrassing.

When approaching an attractive woman, I feel it necessary to pull my shoulders back, push my chest out and hold my stomach in. This, however, produces an unfortunate side effect as it makes my face go purple. Said attractive woman is then confronted with an apparition that is not far removed from walking rigor mortis, coupled with a voice that is an amalgamation of Donald Duck and an inebriated Marlon Brando in his Godfather role. Could this be considered counterproductive to the founding of a new friendship?

But, those of us so afflicted have been granted a temporary lifeline. The present trend for men to wear their shirts outside their trousers is a boon, especially as the only trousers that appear to be available in the shops are slim-fit and skinny-legged.

Do retailers think that no-one over the age of 50 could possibly be a customer? Why can’t designers take a man’s shape, age, etc, into account? And if they don’t want our custom, could they at least sell braces?