Watching stale soccer from the snug of a prized deco armchair is the limit of my permitted thrills – a sad comedown for one who was groomed to make things happen. Sad to have slipped from motivator to spectator, from the wings of great stages to a piece of high-winged furniture. Still, there are compensations. By staying out of the thick of things, I have acquired an aura of what, in small-business circles, passes for timeless wisdom.

Lifelong prudence has reaped its rewards. My town house has a heated indoor pool, I holiday winter and summer in wickedly overpriced Swiss resorts and my pension arrangements are structured to keep me in comfort for three lifetimes. ‘Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people,’ said the prophet Isaiah – so we made it the tribal aspiration. What greater calm can a man find on earth than the quiet rustling of gilt-edged assets?

At Rotary and Bnai Brith you cannot tell me apart from the rest of the Lodge, and that is how I like it; none of the other brothers has, to my certain knowledge, been invaded by genius and ruined by its defection. Forget I mentioned that: not many people are meant to know about it. ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ my father used to say, when asked how he was; and so do I. Normality is my nirvana. Only within, deep within, at the clotted edge of irreparable loss, do I feel the need for an unnecessary journey that will allow me to avoid devastating self-contemplation and the acceleration of inherited arteriosclerosis.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the railways were mostly run for people like me, half-wrecked psyches in perpetual flight from the missing part. I can just see a Development Director springing his brainwave initiative at a board meeting. ‘Why don’t we run extra Monday-morning services to the boondocks?’ he proposes brightly. ‘There must be thousands of useless deadweights, dog-ends and waiting-for-godders who are just dying to get away.’

Settling in my window seat I pop two pills, a brand-name sedative and a homoeopathic palliative, shutting my eyes for ten minutes of yogic meditation. My Harley Street consultant (the cardiologist, not the naturopath) advises daily exercise and the avoidance of agitation. Being of a responsible disposition, I eat warily and carry a kidney-donor card. If I see a pretty girl or a police chase, I look away. In Michelin-starred restaurants, I order steamed fish. I have many friends but no recent lovers, vague interests but no driving passions.