Fifty isn’t old but you still can’t afford to procrastinate

I’m still dog-sitting for my boss Bella. Her cockapoo Bear is to die for, but the past fortnight has not been without its trials. Bear is not, as Bella promised, “more or less house-trained”. I don’t know whether to be pleased or horrified that in the time it takes me to realise he’s had an accident and reach for anti-bac, Bear’s usually eaten the evidence.

Gross eating habits are just the beginning. On our very first walk on Clapham Common, Bear managed to cause a major incident, by slipping his lead and making a dash for the road. The good news is, Bear was saved from certain death beneath a four-by-four by a quick-thinking jogger who grabbed his harness. The bad news is, I mistook the jogger’s Good Samaritan moment for an attempted dog-nap and alerted the rest of the park’s canine community, who quickly turned vigilante. The even worse news is, when I attended Glenn the postie’s goodbye party, I met the jogger-not-napper again. His name is Jez and he’s one of Glenn’s best friends.

Where to start.

“I’m sorry about that thing in the park,” I said.

“You just walked off.”

“I was embarrassed.”

“I was trying to help and I ended up being set upon by a gang of angry dog walkers for my trouble.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” I joked.

“Without you there to explain that your dog was off his lead and out of control, I was nearly bundled into a police van.”

“He’s not my dog,” I felt the need to clarify.

“Whoever he belongs to, he needs some proper training.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Bear was feral. As if he guessed that we were talking about it, Bear stopped licking his nether regions and looked up at us with a big doggy grin. Seeing Jez melt, I took my chance to set relations back to “cordial”.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I suggested.

He let me get him a whisky and coke and told me his life story. Glenn and Jez met at the sorting office, where Jez was working while he trained to be a physiotherapist.

“It was a classic mid-life career change. I’d worked in the city for twenty years but started to feel like I needed to make a real difference. My wife – ex-wife – was furious, but I’m convinced I made the right choice. We only get one life.”

I agreed.

Glenn joined us and the conversation moved to his own mid-life moment. He’s moving to Devon where he’ll be working at his cousin’s campsite, which is having a very good year indeed, thanks to Boris’s traffic light system having been firmly stuck on amber for so long. Glenn was excited about the move. As he described the beaches close to his new home, his eyes were lit with joy.

“I’ve never seen him look so happy,” said my neighbour, Brenda, who was also at the goodbye bash.

I walked home with Brenda, who would probably miss Glenn more than I would. It would take her a while to cultivate any new postie as part of her street-wide intelligence network.

“If I had my life again,” she mused as we stood at her gate. “I’d like to move out of London. But if you’re going to move to the country, you’ve got to do it when you’re young. When you’re still energetic enough to make a proper effort to be part of the community.”

“You’re energetic, Brenda.” She ran the equivalent of a marathon every week.

“But I’m settled now. How old are you, Trudy?”

“I’m fifty in November,” I admitted.

“That’s not old. I mean, it’s not exactly young, but you’re not quite finished yet. Whatever it is you want to do, get it done. Life is short.”

Brenda was right. Fifty isn’t old but you still can’t afford to procrastinate when it comes to making life decisions. I was potentially only half-way through my life. I knew, like Jez, that I didn’t want to look back on my life and ask myself, “What was all that about?” My job in PR had its moments – I knew there were people out there who would have loved to spend all day thinking of exciting ways to promote non-alcoholic root-based wine or artisan potato candles – but there had to be something more.

What was it that I wanted? Really? If I was going to make any big moves, they needed to be well-thought through.

I got out the notepad where I’d made my “Things to do before I’m fifty” list back in 2019, when I was a mere stripling of 48. The list was full of hope. I was going to quit my job at the beginning of 2020 and spend the year travelling around Europe, making the most of what remained of my freedom of movement pre-Brexit. Then Covid… Time to make a new list. Perhaps Devon was my new Ibiza.

All the time I was on the sofa making my new list, I was vaguely aware of the sound of Bear growling contently to himself as he mauled a pair of my old slippers to death. Suddenly, Bear was suspiciously quiet. He had given up chewing the slippers and taken himself into the kitchen, doubtless in search of something to eat. I got up, intending to foil any canine plan to raid the bin.

I’d put Minky the hamster’s cage in the kitchen while Bear was staying, thinking that she would be all together less excited to have Bear in the house than I was. On the few occasions they had come nose to nose, she had squeaked in affronted alarm.

“Bear?” I was steps away when I heard the crash. As I swung open the door, I saw that Minky’s cage was already on the floor. The hatch had sprung open on impact. My little Russian hamster was nowhere to be seen and Bear was looking very very guilty.