How I became 'that' mouse

LACK OF ALARM ALARM

I had an early train to catch yesterday morning, the 07:42 from Edinburgh Waverley to Manchester Airport (although I would be alighting at Preston). Most days (since my retirement) I'm barely awake at that time of day and if I'm thinking of anything it's about getting up to feed the cat and make hot drinks to bring back to bed. It certainly doesn't involve being on a freezing cold station platform.

So being there on time was a challenge from the off. But one I've met many times in the past (I can still recall the inhuman horror of 06:00 train appointments) so I felt confident I could recapture enough of my faded energy to make the deadline without a problem. Organisation, that's the key element. Prepare properly, know what has to be done, and build plenty contingency time into the planning. The important thing is to minimise the amount of effective thinking required during those unfamiliar hours because it's not going to be a strong point - is it?

So I did all that was necessary and/or possible the night before. Packed my bag. Laid out the clothes I'd be travelling in. Prepared breakfast. Put out the rubbish (I was going to be leaving the flat empty for about eight weeks). Set the alarm on my phone for 05:50. Getting up at that time would give me a chance to waken properly, do some stretches, get showered and dressed, feed myself and clean and tidy up before walking up to the station.

I thought.

Burns' "best laid schemes" injunction never fails because it's about human beings (and mice). And so agley they did go. All the aforementioned foresight let down through one small but crucially overlooked detail. When I set the alarm I chose one that I'd previously created. It was labelled 'Japanese GP' and I'd obviously set it to get me up in time to watch coverage of Formula 1 from Suzuka. Anyone familiar with Grand Prix racing may already be ahead of me here. Qualifying takes place on a Saturday, with the race on the Sunday. And so that was what this alarm had been designed to do – wake me up on those two days. Yesterday was a Wednesday.

I slept well. Which was probably a positive given what happened next. I woke, and gradually registered some degree of surprise that it was so light outside when it must still be before ten to six. Then I looked at the clock. 06:27. There followed a period that felt like several minutes, but was probably no more than two or three seconds, in which my brain processed this information, matched it with my expectations, and worked out the implications. SHIT!!

As you enter your forties I think most people begin to realise that their body changes with age, and most of it isn't for the best. You start to find yourself making strange little noises when called upon to complete tasks which once were performed without a thought. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Somewhere in that well honed machine that is your body there are bits wearing out, weakening, less able to twist and turn and perform as they once did. It takes time, but it's only going to get worse....

I'm in my mid fifties. I've a steady physical decline to look forward to, but the process has long since begun to impose itself on my consciousness and I know, from hard learned lessons, that making sudden or strenuous movements without warming up the relevant muscles is to invite trouble. Cats have got it right - have a really good stretch when you waken up. (Or even if you've been sitting for an hour....)

Heeding that advice didn't appear to be an option. Which is probably why, as I sat at my keyboard yesterday evening, an array of aches made me feel like a lump of unseasoned wood. The duvet was thrown back with considerably more urgency than I have managed in years. Forgetting to shave, I got myself into the shower and out again. Dressed. Started eating my fruit and cooking my porridge at the same time.

(There are people who, on reading this, would ask why I even bothered with breakfast in a situation like this. They are fools. Trust me, I know my body.)

I ate all I had planned to eat, albeit skipping a hot drink and failing to put any sort of spread on the pancakes - I can cut some corners when it comes to eating, just not many. The dishes got washed, my teeth were brushed, some basic worktop wiping performed and that would have to do. Coat on, rucksack slung on my shoulders, out the door and move as fast as my still-stiff legs would permit.

The notion of walking up the hill had vanished in the moment that the meaning of 06:27 had impressed itself upon me. A bus it would have to be. There are two I could take - the 16 or the 22. As I neared the traffic lights there was a 22 waiting to turn the corner. A much younger me briefly considered sprinting ahead to see if I could catch it at the next stop. My much older legs refused to countenance such madness. So I walked semi-briskly on, and saw a 16 pulling up. And away, long before I could possibly have reached it.

I'd got this far without panic so there was no point starting now. The 22 is famed for the frequency of its service and sure enough there was another along within a couple of minutes. Traffic being light at this ludicrous and unholy hour there were no hold ups and I was down Waverley Steps and perusing the Departures board in minutes. My train was there, on time and awaiting my presence at platform 15. I got on board, found my seat and settled in. Eight minutes to spare.

Who needs an alarm?

(I have no wish to repeat the wrong sort of alarm I experienced yesterday morning!)