My winter jaunt was to Cádiz. I hired a tower. There were 116 steps from pavement to bed. Up through a building, past an angry man, out of a door onto a roof, down some steps, across the roof, up a ladder and there was my four floor tower. Suspended from the sky was my bedroom.

I didn´t have a heart attack, but I did wear out my knee.

Having no car seemed, and was, a good idea, but I walked every day for miles and miles. And the town outdoor gym was irresistible.


I hobbled home when my time was up.
“You realize you have been acting like Peter Pan” scolded my osteopath looking down his long nose.
I acquired a “knee man” called Mr M. Everyone I know of my age has, or knows of a knee man. Surgeons are so extraordinarily modest that they drop the doctor title and become just plain “Mr”. I have never actually met a surgeon who was not unashamedly arrogant. So, I can´t quite understand that convention. My Mr M takes the cake.
“How do I know you are a good knee man?” Ask I
Him: Puffing himself up
“How many knee men do you know who got a BAFTA for open knee surgery on Channel 5?” He leans across the desk and hands over the link he has scribbled down on a doctoral notepad.
So, I´ve got an actor doing my knee replacement surgery.
Mr M will work miracles with Ms MM: the bee’s knees I’m sure xxx