THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN’S HANDBOOK

I’ve never seen it myself, but it must be out there - probably bound in leather and inscribed in silver leaf like all the dusty old books were before the jolly Internet came along.

You can probably ask for it at the library. But don’t bother if you’re still in your 20s - the librarian will just laugh as though you asked for a copy of How To Write Dialogue by Dan Brown.

“Ha! No such thing!” she’ll say, “And even if there were,” she winks, “Trust me, you really don’t need it.”

Then she might check no-one’s listening, and beckon you closer across the counter.

“But come back in ten years…”

It can’t really be a myth can it, the Middle-Aged Man’s Handbook? It must be a whispered secret between blokes in their 30s and 40s; like the network that extends underground between allotment sheds and man caves. Oh yes. The Handbook’s out there, written in invisible ink and (quite sensibly) large print.

Somewhere in the chapter presumably entitled ‘Things You Absolutely Must Take Up and Then Talk About’ is advice on food. Which is good because food, as a rule, is a wonder of the world to middle-aged men.

The info’s probably sandwiched between ‘Running a 10K and Posting It on Strava’ and ‘Kitchen Cuisine - How To Let Everyone Know You’re a Chef Without Actually Saying It’ and I imagine it advises the man on all things foodie, including angles to nudge into - on the golf course, at the pub, or in WhatsApp groups. Helpfully, I imagine, it shows you how exactly to go on about your allergies and intolerances… which I (ever dutiful to my demographic of course) am absolutely about to do…

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“I just can’t imagine a world without cheese!” I said to my colleague Andy. I’d forgotten he was a vegan. He followed the Handbook (of course he did) and told me at length about ‘vegan’ cheese: a substance I did try once and concluded smelled like schoolboy-rugby socks. He laughed and said it was alright really Matt.

Eating out’s tricky too. At lunch today (in Oxford) I had to explain why I might not be able to eat anything from the Lebanese Bakery. It’s funny how this conversation goes - before long you’re dancing politely around something you’d rather not talk about.

“How did you discover it?” asked Pedro when I told him I was probably and quite suddenly intolerant to lactose.

“Well I suppose I just had some er… stomach upsets,” I started to say. The bit of my brain responsible for euphemisms was awake, “And the doctor just told me to cut everything out, see what the um… outcome is… and then add things back in after a week or two.”

Good job Euphemism Office. You guys can take the rest of the day off.

As it turned out, I could eat the chicken shawarma from the bakery, but without the sauce. So that is what I did. Lovely. Dry, clompy, and in need of the tahini it’s usually drenched in, but quite suitable. Plus I found out how to make mayo from scratch, which seems like it ought to be more complicated than it is. But don’t let me wander into the ‘Kitchen Cuisine’ chapter…

This is it now then. Restaurant menus are a list of question marks, and ordering food is going to be more of a conversation with the waiter than it ever has been. Any allergies? Yes. Take a deep breath, laddie. Risk has entered the dining area, and I’m not sure I like it.

But risk is all part of the Middle-Aged Man’s Handbook - change and risk are intertwined, whether you’re buying a motorcycle, donning Lycra for an evening run, or making your own mayonnaise with a handblender and some background jazz. I’d better get used to it.