Reality

I phoned a friend from the days when we played five-a-side football together back in the early sixties, he lives quite close but we only seem to meet at funerals now.

At seventy-nine he still works as a painter and decorator; not through choice but because he still needs extra money.

The conversation went like this.

Hi Mick, how are you?

Suicidal.

Why?

I have just realized that I don’t have any pension, not even a state pension. I will lose my house.

That can’t be right, your self-employed so the money should have been taken out of your tax returns.

I thought and told him I knew someone in the tax office and would get some advice and phone the next day, which I did.

Hi Mick, I have spoken to an adviser and she said you need to phone the tax office yourself but you should have a state pension.

No, I haven’t, and I owe half a million pounds.

Mick that’s impossible, you have worked all your life and your lifestyle is minimal, you don’t drink, smoke, or gamble and rarely go on holidays so how can you owe that kind of money. Sit down and do a proper check, I will phone back tomorrow.

I phoned the next morning, did you come up with any proper figures?

Yes, I owe a million pounds and even worse I have got rats up the loft.

Mick, you don’t owe that sort of money, the banks wouldn’t let you, your not well are you.

No, my son is coming to pick me up in a bit, I have been sectioned and have to go to hospital.

I had started to suspect that Mick had some type of mental problem at the end of my first conversation with him but it seemed so implausible, he was always so sensible and sounded exactly the same as when we first met in the sixties.

I will be going to see him this week.