Will I survive my mid-life marathon?

Rift Valley

‘I’ve got a brilliant idea,’ said Jools on the phone, his voice characteristically rising like a commentator on the Grand National as Red Rum comes in for the finish. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘We buy land in Kenya — and then sell it.’ ‘Genius,’ I said. Exclaimed Jools, ‘I know! And I’ll give you ten per cent!’ I have been telling Jools to buy land in Kenya for ages. Property prices are rising faster here than anywhere else in the world. I know a great deal about buying houses in these parts. It seemed natural that he would want me to advise him on such a business even if he appeared to have forgotten I’d suggested it to him in the first place. For Jools and I, this was part of a protracted reconciliation after falling out badly, when we didn’t speak for several years. It’s a long story, but we were born in the same Kenyan hospital. As young correspondents we shared a house in Nairobi. Later we established a TV production company in London — a complete disaster with very few commissions. Jools and I got on so badly we had a fistfight in Burger King on Oxford Street. I left the company, slid into blissful poverty and met my wife Claire. Jools became a tycoon. We were still friends. When we invited Jools for dinner, he’d come by and then after the starter he would leave to ‘go on’. We called this the BBD — Bigger, Better Deal. If he invited us to supper, we’d be asked to come for drinks after pudding — when the A-list guests had already departed. I did not like any of this. Jools nicknamed me ‘Mister Angry’. At the opening of the nightclub China White, we both drank about 20 vodkas. En route home, Jools kicked me out of his BMW.