A Small Boy

There was a time, long ago, when I was very good at doing nothing except let my imagination roam free; I didn't need other people, I could conjure them if I needed them; and I was centre of a small universe in my mind. I was called a dreamer, Jonathan-Jo with a mouth like an 'O', and, happily, left to roam in my own world.

That changed. Gradually the expectations of my schools, my parents, the people around me, told me I should be doing something constructive. I needed to stop the time-wasting dreaming and concentrate. I should show some determination, ambition, drive. So, slowly, reluctantly, perforce, I did, and over the decades these became built-in. My expectation of myself was that I wouldn't waste time, wouldn't squander my life doing very little. I wouldn't be hugely successful at anything but nor would I be a failure. So, for example, I wasn't an outstanding teacher, but nor was I bad at what was a multifaceted job; I like to feel that I had the respect of both my pupils and my colleagues. Later we ran a business, and I hope that the tiny community on the west coast of Scotland that our shop served would say that we did well for them.

Learning to have a little drive, ambition, to be successful, came slowly but fairly easily. At the other end of life, learning to do less, to relax into retirement, has been much more difficult. I tried to let myself into this 'retirement' state slowly, doing steadily less rather than giving up a whole lifestyle in one go, as my father did when he left East Africa. I had hoped that continuing the battle to be a success in my writing would help. Now that those ambitions have faded, now that I'm at the wrong end of my eighth decade, I can justify doing nothing, nothing in a positive sense, yet I feel guilty. I should be volunteering. I should be socialising through clubs and societies. I really ought to but don't make the effort. I'd just love to be back in the uncomplicated world of that small boy alone on a tropical beach, re-immersed in my imagination.