When the consequences of your past come home to roost…

I’d no idea how bad things would get until the police arrived. All week, I’d had this odd ‘something-not-quite-right’ feeling – an almost-physical discomfort I couldn’t quite put a finger on. I assumed it resulted from the accumulation of calamities throwing my life into pandemonium: the brain scan, Barbara’s insistence on a divorce, and that embarrassing incident with Mrs Etherington. Together, they’d relegated the Saab’s service and MOT – thrice postponed and a fortnight overdue – to the level of a minor irritation.

The divorce: My forthcoming trip to London to indulge my solicitor’s notions of ‘tactical planning’ for my permanent separation from Barbara – or more accurately hers from me – rankled, to say the least. She’d been happily shacked up with Roger for a couple of years, after all. Why divorce?

The brain scan: “Merely a precaution,” the doctor had said. I’d always believed I’d go the way of my father, but hadn’t expected the symptoms quite so soon. I may have hit my sixth decade, but I’m a former Olympian, for God’s sake! I run most days, manage a riding school, read widely and fancy myself a whiz at sudoku. I have wondered if I should pick up the saxophone again to keep the musical synapses alive.

“Keep a diary,” the doctor suggested. “Appointments, plans. Maintain a record of things to do and when you’ve done them.”

“Sounds a bit tedious,” I answered. “Perhaps I could spice the details up a little.”

He flashed a gold incisor. “Great idea. Writing can be excellent therapy.”