I wake up some time after 10am, to find myself alone in a strange bedroom with a terrible sense of foreboding. I listen out for voices, but I can hear nothing apart from waves breaking on rocks.
It occurs to me that I am in Greece. Outside the bedroom I find a set of open doors framing a sparkling sea. Beyond them is a small balcony. Somewhere below it, I can hear my wife amusing people. She is deploying the special, highly inaccurate accent she uses to imitate one of our children.
“Oh, sorry Mum,” she says, sounding like a Dickensian urchin. Someone else laughs in recognition.
I step out on to the balcony, into bright sunshine.
This all seems pretty good, I think. I can’t place the source of the terrible sense of foreboding. But it’s still there: the distinct impression of impending structural collapse. Also, I feel awful.
Then I remember: I am 60.
Downstairs, I find my wife chatting on a lounger with one of our friends.
“There he is,” she says.
“I can’t believe how much it hurts, being this old,” I say.
“Happy birthday!” says our friend.
“The aching limbs, the dry mouth,” I say.
“You’re hungover,” my wife says.
“Ears ringing, head pounding, mystery bruises on the shins and elbows,” I say. “Is this what it’s like from now on?”
“If you drink as much as you did yesterday, then yes,” my wife says.
The trip to Greece wasn’t birthday-related; just an accident of timing. We got invited, and it seemed to solve the problem of me having to plan anything. I couldn’t know ahead of time how I would feel about turning 60 when the day arrived, but it seemed unlikely I would be in a mood to play host. In Greece I would be among friends who already know what I’m like when I decide to drop the ball.
My mood began to curdle even before we’d left. The flight was at an ungodly hour of the morning; I had to pack in the middle of the night.
“Perhaps you don’t need as many T-shirts as you think you need,” my wife said, watching me.
“Are you saying I overpack?” I said, testily.
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t pack seven T-shirts,” she said.
“You’re saying I dress inappropriately for my age?” I said. “That I should transition to high-collared garments?”
“I’m saying that your birthday present is T-shirts,” she said. “If you pack seven, you’ll end up with 10.”
On the terrace, a faint breeze stirs the surrounding vegetation. Behind my eyes, a screw tightens.
“We’re going to lunch at the restaurant that way,” my wife says, pointing up the coast. “A half-hour walk.”
“Will we be going past any kind of hospital?” I say.
“Drink some water,” she says. “Go for a swim.”
My phone pings: a birthday text from a friend, with a link to the online application page for the Older Persons Freedom Travel Pass.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll swim.”
My scramble down the rocks to the sea is characterised by a certain graceless timidity. The terrain is unfamiliar, and I am not good in flip-flops. But also I am thinking: this is not how you want to go – slipping unnoticed to your death between ancient boulders. Reports of your demise will make no mention of your being taken too soon. He was taken, they will say, more or less on time.
Once I’m in the sea I feel a lot better, alone and afloat. Age, I think, is just a number – a huge number. But there still is much to look forward to, if I can just manage to climb back up on those rocks. I try to imagine what it will be like to get on a bus without paying.
Later, at the restaurant, we lapse into storytelling. Because all of us are one side of 60 or the other, there are disputes over detail and provenance. You’re telling it wrong, says one person. I was there, says the other – you weren’t. Sometimes we can’t remember if we were there or not.
My phone pings sporadically in my pocket – mostly birthday cake emojis. I open my presents.
“T-shirts,” says one friend.
“He likes T-shirts,” my wife says. “Don’t you?”
“I do,” I say.
After we’ve eaten, the restaurant owner comes over to wish me a happy birthday. I nod and smile. My phone pings again. It’s actually been a lovely day, I think. Perhaps the outlook is not so bleak. You’ll feel better tomorrow.
The restaurant owner returns with a bottle of some clear liqueur and six small glasses. I think: oh well.
