Cravats and bedroom telly

Mark Palmer used to keep his getting-old habits firmly in the closet. Now he positively enjoys putting them on show

There’s a man in the office at the Daily Mail, where I work, who, some years ago, started wearing one of those straps around his neck that holds reading glasses. Poor fellow. Old beyond his years. I would never do that. And I still wouldn’t wear a spectacles necklace in the office – for fear that it would propel me towards the departures lounge when the powersthat-be are looking to pension off a few old-timers.

But what a joy it is to wear my little black necklace with two bits of plastic at each end as soon as I get home.

Forget the pipe and slippers; this is true luxury. No longer do I pace up and down spluttering, ‘Now, where on earth did I put my f****** glasses?’ Or, worse, accuse my wife of hiding them somewhere so safe that we need a pair of sniffer dogs to find them.

They just dangle from my neck, occasionally picking up breadcrumbs. But they’re always a reassuring presence. Not pretty, I grant you, but utterly reliable.

I call these late-life indulgences Parting Pleasures. Another one is the glass of red wine I take to bed with me, as a perfect companion to lovely Evan Davis and his gang on Newsnight.

A few years ago, I would have been ashamed of such behaviour; even having a telly in the bedroom was questionable. But, now, this minor self-indulgence is as comforting as the feeling my wife gets from popping a hot-water bottle under the duvet on her side of the bed.

It’s the same with my father’s silk cravats. He died far too young, nearly thirty years ago, leaving a wide variety of fetching neckwear. Growing up, I never quite understood why he always sported a cravat in winter. They came out for dinner parties, walks in Scotland, gardening, skiing. They seemed pointless, restricting – and no one cool would have ever worn one.

But, now, his neatly folded stash occupies pride of place in my top drawer. On chilly nights, I turn down the heating and put on a cravat – and on occasion have been known to wear one throughout the night. They are toasty and comforting against the skin.

But I don’t don them in public – not yet, anyway. They remain ‘in the comfort of your own home’ accessories, and so free from public criticism. A not so guilty secret, in other words.

This got me thinking. When do you come out as an old person? Some never do – and that’s fine. But I’m enjoying the process. By which I mean the small changes that make a big difference. And it’s not just the things I do now that I did not do before, but the things I don’t need to do at all any more.

Like drinking pints in a pub. I’ve never managed much more than half a Guinness in the Dog and Duck. Even as a young man, I wanted to order either a glass of white wine or spicy tomato juice when out with the lads. But I never did.

I remember one evening in the 1980s, being taken to a pub off Fleet Street by a features editor for what amounted to a job interview. I was hopelessly underqualified but it was clear that two pints (his round and mine) would put me in the frame. Three pints would have him thinking, ‘Yes, I can work with this lad.’ And four pints would see him produce the contract from his jacket pocket – or make him forget why I was there in the first place.

Nowadays, I can ask for what I want, without anyone questioning my alpha male credentials.

And there’s no longer any stigma about being the first to leave a party. On the rare occasions we get invited to dinner in someone’s home, I’m always the first to make a move once the pudding plates have been dispatched to the dishwasher.

It doesn’t come across as rude. I can sense the relief from the other guests – whatever their ages – that the evening, as pleasant as it’s been, is coming to an end. It makes me feel I’m leading from the front, publicly offering the choice: remain or leave. Nothing wrong with being a remainer; nothing wrong with opting to leave either.

I hope this doesn’t sound smug – and I don’t mean to exaggerate the joy of my Parting Pleasures. I’m reminded of the day an elderly Samuel Beckett was walking with a friend on a perfect spring morning in Paris.

‘Doesn’t a day like this make you glad to be alive? said the friend.

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ said Beckett.

The same goes for Parting Pleasures. Not life-changing – but, still, a small consolation prize in the race to the finish.