I have an immediate and pressing problem in writing this. Do I launch into a Job’s tale of misery and abandonment; at least a reader might draw comfort from the fact that they are, at least better off than this sad old man. Or should I create a jolly, brave tale of a spirit thriving in adversity, full of creativity and seizing the opportunity to accomplish tasks long delayed. Or seeking out inspiration and new knowledge. That might initially cheer up the casual reader. Or may even inspire, but then might not the depression of inadequacy lower their morale?  No, I’ll tell it as it is.

The initial enforced solitude prompted a sort of guilt free, gung ho feeling of liberation from life’s stresses. Think of all the things I can do with this time; the world, at last, is my oyster. Except, of course, that it isn’t, not really. That particular oyster is no longer available. Amazing that so much inspiration and enthusiasm actually comes from other people and outside events. Even if I tell myself a joke, I find I find I’ve heard it before and it wasn’t that funny then either. And besides, the stretches of free time prove a great delaying tactic – tomorrow is untouched, it’ll keep. 

The mundane day to day tasks still remain and cannot be delayed. After all, I could not bear the thought of people muttering “...he’s letting himself go...” So first get up, wash, perhaps even shave, then get dressed. Eat something then tidy up. Take your tablets. Draw the curtains. Then, tired already, relax and meditate on the day ahead. Your eyes are drawn to the dirty dishes and yesterday’s clothes, showing the signs of the garden. So, wash up or load the dishwasher, put your coloureds in the washer and put out the rubbish. Already the day is advanced and you are merely back where you were 24 hours ago.

I look at the garden. It might keep, but why not see what it’s like outside. Not bad. I potter, hoeing here, deadheading there, cutting back some dead wood. The sun shines and warms my face. A peacock butterfly flies near me, resplendent in its fresh wings. It flutters with me as I wander and, as I sit, it rests on the bench with me, opening and closing its wings, sunbathing. I doze. I awake to find it still there. It joins me as I resume my stroll, then it flies up to the sunlit fence, away from my shade. I find myself curiously moved, my eyes moist. What or who was that? For the first time for some days, I felt the warmth of companionship and inspiration. And hope.

I return to the house with an idea. Julie always spent an inordinate amount of time contacting members of the family, just keeping in touch. It was time I took my turn. A letter to The Times suggested a way. A chap of my ilk decided to open a Grandad School, sending regular ideas and projects to the young, deprived of their usual education. Now, I wouldn’t fancy trying to teach my grandchildren anything. But I could write to them, especially those I don’t see very often.

And so I embarked on an exciting, enjoyable and time consuming task. I have 17 grandchildren and a few great grandchildren (all ages 8 to 25) some at primary school, some at University and others working. Their replies are a constant and illuminating delight. I have sent some ideas about things they may like to investigate, but I have no responses to those so far. I would like them to think they’re special, which they are and that someone other than their mum and dad cares for, and about, them. And, of course I’d like them to care about me (that should go without saying)

I have not, so far mentioned my immediate family. Perhaps I take them for granted. All their support, transporting, feeding, good humour, fetching and carrying. I am blessed.

And I am content. In a poignant sort of way.