Next month marks 12 months since I stepped down from full-time work. On 2 September 2026, it will be the anniversary of tossing the pub keys back to the brewery and skipping off for a boozy afternoon to celebrate.
We’d planned a sunny holiday somewhere all-inclusive, the kind of place where you wave your bangle, receive another glass of something alcofrolic and ram-raid a buffet of beige.
Instead, we borrowed our pals’ cottage in Yorkshire. I screamed at stupid drivers around the Dales while Rob clung on for dear life.
It was the start of retirement.
I had so many plans. However, as John Steinbeck almost said: “Best-laid plans,” and all that shiz.
I was restless. I failed to launch.
There were books to write, a gym to attend and a waist size to achieve. But retirement never quite set in. “Put it off until the new year,” I thought.
So I did.
I did launch a small gallery. However, bloody Steinbeck again, although I sold some art, none of it was by the lovely artists I was championing. Customers preferred the twee pictures of owls and deer I’d picked up in a job lot and shoved into elderly frames.
I made sales, but only enough to cover the costs. There was no actual income. Eventually, I sold the pre-bought stock and basic fittings and washed my face financially.
I am now the proud owner of a very expensive, very large art printer. Fortunately, our tax return covered its cost. The garage is still home to the art folio frames and inserts. I can’t quite bring myself to sell them, although that will probably happen sooner or later.
Then, in February, I landed my own show on local FM radio: a little two-hour programme once a week. The format is four Agony Uncle dilemmas, discussed between songs of my choosing.
I’ve gone through my Drag Queen iPod Era and am now returning to my university years with ’90s Britpop.
Off the back of that, I landed a small freelance contract with the BBC, providing entertainment slots for the radio. Every few weeks, I go on air to discuss nonsense about television shows, mainly vintage ones.
Then another radio station offered me a slot, essentially rinsing and repeating what I do for the first station.
Last week, I landed a book slot.
So now I get to talk about books.
I was meant to be writing books.
This whole diversionary tactic appears to be working to great effect.
I am editing, though. I’m working on my completed romantic comedy novel, Reason, Season or Lifetime. But I hate editing. I really do.
Still, I want to see my book on the shelves of bookshops, so I need to buckle down.
Naturally, I’m also writing two other books alongside it because the ideas keep popping into my bloody head.
One is an art-crime novel. Rather than stealing the art, they’re returning it. Nice hook, huh? I thought so.
The other has a completely bonkers premise: a budget television makeover show in which a psychic and a property expert team up to renovate haunted houses. Each makeover must please both the homeowner and the ghost, with a film crew along for the ride.
I can watch paint dry with the best of them, and those silly ghost-hunting reality shows, where people run around in the dark and go bump in the night, are such fun.
It’s a decent hook. Bonkers, yes, but even while writing it, even I desperately want to watch it on television.
Anyhow, I’ve been a little diverted. Again!
Now I’m not just editing words. I’m editing radio shows and podcasts, too.
I really don’t like editing. I’d much prefer to wave my hands around while somebody else does it.
However, I’m thoroughly enjoying interviewing authors and discussing their creative processes. They’re incredibly inspiring. I seem to interview a new hero every other day, and I have so much admiration for published novelists.
I just need to buckle down.
I’ve been semi-retired for nearly a year, and I’m finally getting into the groove. A routine is beginning to settle around me.
So, wish me luck.
I have three podcasts to edit, five radio shows to edit, one completed novel to edit and two more novels to write.
Oh, and there’s…
No. I won’t mention that project.
Sounds fun!