Age has added caution to our adventures

TODAY, the gods being willing, my family plans an outing.

A leisurely drive to the Cotswolds, perhaps.

We are also toying with Bourtonon-the-Water model village, if allowed back.

We were carefree and courting the last time we visited the Lilliputian community and, giddy on real ale, I accidentally booted the church steeple’s weather vane and crushed a choirboy.

We are also considering Boscobel House in South Staffordshire, where King Charles II famously shinned up a mighty oak to avoid Cromwell’s Roundheads.

This slice of history underlines how far the Royal Family has regressed.

I can’t see any of our current crop scaling that mighty oak.

They struggled to clutch giant, inflatable bananas during It’s A Royal Knockout. King Charles II conquered that tree, Prince Charles would merely hug the thing tightly.

I have tried, but I can’t imagine Edward climbing to the top boughs of that oak.

None of the proposed destinations are too far or too adventurous, yet we have spent four days preparing for the family outing.

Last night, I heard my wife reciting in the kitchen: mayonnaise (check), salmon (check), something to suck in the car (check), walking boots (check), mosquito spray (check).

I have checked my car’s oil, water and tyre pressure on an almost daily basis.

We may merely end up picnicking in the park, but we are prepared for an SAS yomp across the Brecon Beacons.

My wife has packed Kendal Mint Cake just in case we’re overcome by fatigue during the long walk around Ironbridge Gorge Museum.

And there’s the rub. Age has added caution to such adventures. Now, every day is planned with military precision. Every day out is stained by fear we’ve left something on, or failed to lock a door.

We once turned back, with Stonehenge in our sights, because I was convinced the grill was on. It wasn’t.

Yet in my salad days, when I was green with youth, I’d travel hundreds of miles on a whim.

A phone call, a bag of clean clothes and I was off for a carefree, impromptu weekend in heaven knows where.

I’d travel from one end of the country to the other for a disco – only to discover I was just as unattractive to women in Wigan.

Now, burdened by the worries of family, home and declining brain cells, I find even the most mundane journey a white knuckle, rollercoaster ride of pre-planning and fear.

If they’d left the Normandy Landings down to us Lockleys, those brave souls may have been short of weaponry, but they’d have absolutely no fears on the cheese and salad rolls front.

They’d have to turn back a few times to check we’d switched the landing light off, however.

Last week we had to turn back twice. Once because I was convinced the oven was still on, the second because we’d forgotten to put the cat out.

I had put the cat out, but when I opened the front door to check, he raced back in.

I put him out again, then spent the day worrying over whether he’d nipped back in before I closed the door.

I also worried that the fridge door was open, but attempted to keep my concern to myself.

“I’m going to have to go back and check,” I told my wife, finally succumbing to inner demons. “It’s just nagging away at me. I can’t enjoy myself.”

“Sit down,” hissed Julie, “the funeral service is only halfway through.”

As the casket moved gracefully towards the flames, I asked, a tad too loudly: “Are you sure we switched the oven off?”

The deceased man’s widow gave me a familiar, chilly look.

“That reminds me,” I said as the moving ceremony came to an end. “Did you remember to take the chicken out of the fridge to thaw?” The widow wept uncontrollably. I’m afraid it’s all down to slow mental decline. I used to remember faces, not names. Now the faces have faded into oblivion and I’m not man enough to admit it.

“Hello,” said one elegant, middleaged woman at the wake. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She must have detected the panic in my eyes.

“You know,” she chided. “Paddy? The barn conversion?”

“Oh, Paddy,” I blustered. “How long has it been? How is the old fellow?”

“Could be better,” she snapped. “You ran him over. On the main road. He was my Welsh collie.”

“Oh, that Paddy. What a small world!” “And is he fully recovered?” I asked. “Recovered!” she shrieked. “Don’t you remember putting him in the bin bag?”

You would not believe the food we take with us on family outings – crisps, chicken drumsticks, quiches, cheese rolls, cakes.

Julie goes completely over-the-top when preparing food for days out.

“What’s so wrong with Angel Delight?” she protested.

“Nothing per se,” I explained, “but do you think it’s wise to whip one up while driving?”

“The only thing missing is a joint of beef,” I said sarcastically as my elderly mother gorged herself on the backseat at the start of our journey.

“You’re right,” Julie tutted. “Turn the car around. I left it on the kitchen table.”