I have one of those birthdays coming up. It’s one with a zero on the end that makes us all a little more aware of time passing. My birthday wish, was to climb Ben Nevis.

Ben Nevis is the highest mountain in the British Isles.  It’s not high by global standards, just 1,345m, but it’s the biggest we have and, at close to 57° north, it can be vicious at the top, even on mid summer’s day when I planned the assent.

Mrs Jordan, of course, thought me crazy.  She wasn’t alone.  I had my doubts too. To placate her, and a dozen other sensible people, I resolved not to tackle the big Ben alone.  Here starts the problem.

Most of my friends are retired but have no time to do anything.  Trying to get two or more people to do anything at the same time is virtually impossible.  But, after much diary juggling, two intrepid explorers, who had managed to blindside their other halves, agreed to come with me.  Everything would be plane sailing from now.  Not quite.

Fort William, the town at the foot of the mountain, was full.  Not even a park bench or a rodent-infested hayloft was available for three nutters to rent.  Not unless we were prepared to spend a king’s ransom. But, undaunted, I finally found a hostel, void of any facilities other than a roof and an ill-fitting door, 30 miles away.  It would do.  It was supposed to be an adventure. Luxury could wait.  The trip was on again. Then my knee had something to say.

I didn’t fall on it, twist it, bump it or even give it a hard stare as far as I remember but, for reasons only it could possibly know, it decided not to be a knee anymore.  I said, ‘Now look here, you only have one job, to be a knee, and you can’t even get that right’.  I explained that I didn’t have time for all this nonsense, swore at it, massaged it, fed it drugs and even tried my usual ace card at such times, ignoring it – but no: it had gone on strike.

Determined to maintain my authority over this recalcitrant joint, I headed for the local physiotherapist. He immediately understood the problem! I had damaged something beginning with M and had torn my Lateral Antrocite Medial thingy, or some other such balderdash.  I would benefit from surgery but, at my age …!  Excuse me.  At my age.  How very dare you.  I am in the peak of physical condition.  Just fix it will you and let me get up my mountain.  At my age indeed! 

I handed over a purse full of silver and headed off to perform a series of excruciating and, it appears, pointless exercises before returning for further brainwashing two weeks later. Two months (and four purses) on and there was little change.  My mountaineering dream was receding into the distance.  I slipped into a depression.  Couldn’t be bothered to do anything but sit around and watch rubbish TV all day.  That did the trick.  A few episodes of popular soap operas and even my knee, until now stubborn and belligerent, gave in.  The pain went away.  Again, I announced to my accomplices, we were going.

Then my wife’s brother died. Very sad, but he had been very ill. My initial thought was to cancel my trip to support her but no, she insisted, my staying at home wouldn’t bring him back.  I should go.  She would be OK.  Wracked with guilt I reluctantly agreed and thanked her for her kindness and understanding.  It’s what he would have wanted, I told myself. Then his son revealed the day of the funeral.  You have guessed it.  The very day I planned to climb the Ben.

Now I have never shied away from doing difficult things.  Quite the opposite.  But sometimes things just keep happening that makes you think, maybe this is wrong. Not wrong forever, but wrong for now.  The universe is stepping in to tell me what I would otherwise be too stupid to hear. Don’t go.  Not now.  I found out yesterday that a father and son, both experienced mountaineers, died near Ben Nevis just a few days ago. It’s no place to be flippant. 

Ben Nevis has been there a while. It will stay a while longer.  I’ll climb it another day when the universe is with me.