The Switch is on

After months of drifting, I’ve found the spark again. It’s early days, but I can feel it.

It’s easy to drift in middle age. You think you’re making progress, but really you’re circling.

After I had prostate cancer, I’m fine now thank you, I lost my intentionality. That’s the best word I can find for it.

When you’ve got a foot in politics, even from the edges, it’s all too easy to let events run your life. There are votes. Committees. People who need something. One morning you look up and 18 months have passed. You’ve been busy, but not deliberate.

That was me.

One month I was lifting weights three times a week, cycling around London on a Lime bike, sleeping well and feeling good. The next, I had cancer. Then I didn’t.

Once I got the all-clear, I should have eased back into old routines. Instead, happy to be alive, I let go. I sat on the sofa. Played on the PS5. Ate whatever I fancied. Told myself I deserved it.

Then my clothes stopped fitting. All of them. I was wheezing after short walks. Napping before noon.

I looked for the switch, the one in my head that flicks from malaise to momentum. It had vanished.

I blamed my ADHD when I kept sneaking spoonfuls of Nutella from my landlady’s kitchen. I blamed work when the Just Eat guy started greeting me like an old mate again. I wondered if I was depressed. Maybe. It was definitely a slump.

A few close friends, Steve, Tom and Kev, said gentle things, thinking I hadn’t heard. But I had. The problem was, I couldn’t act. The switch wasn’t off. It just wasn’t there.

What I did have was experience. I’d been here before. I knew that when the willpower is gone, planning has to take over.

So I picked a date: 1st August. I picked it back in May. It’s recess. No votes. No London. No excuses. I even booked a family holiday in July to clear the decks.

Then I got serious.

Prep Week

In the last week of July, I joined a gym. I wrote my programme. No way was I going to let a 22-year-old trainer embarrass me. I wrote a shopping list. Then I rewrote it. Then I perfected it. I ordered ketone test strips and a continuous glucose monitor. I changed the batteries in the scales and put them in the kitchen, near the fridge. I started stepping on them every morning to face the numbers.

I told my friends. Not because I wanted encouragement. Because I needed them not to offer me crisps.

August — The First Leg

August means fewer distractions. No trains. No division lobbies. No late nights. That gives me space and I’m using it.

I started logging everything on MyFitnessPal. There are eight years of data on there. Every relapse. Every burst of effort. I can’t lie to myself.

By Christmas, I want that weight graph to look like an S on its side, not a big sagging U.

I’m not trying to be a hero. I do two circuits on eight machines: treadmill, seated leg curl and raise, seated row, bike, shoulder press and back. I’m using the Technogym Biocircuit at the gym. If I have any energy left, I finish with an incline walk on the treadmill.

August is about moving again. About building routine back into my working week.

Measurement — Facing Facts

I’m weighing in daily. I’m tracking my blood glucose. I’m testing for ketones. I’m logging everything I eat. I’m eating clean and avoiding alcohol.

That’s what intention looks like.

Quiet. Focused. Consistent.

It’s only day eleven, so still early days. But I already feel chipper. And I wanted to tell you about it.

I’ve found the bloody switch and it’s on.

The Third Document to Die For

I’ve just finished something I’ve been meaning to do for years. It’s called my When I Die File.

It’s exactly what it sounds like, a single document that contains all the essential information my family will need if I die. Not just the obvious things like where my will is kept, but the practical stuff that becomes urgent when someone is gone: bank account details, mortgage information, pension contacts, business records, investments, insurance (or in my case, the lack of it), and even what streaming subscriptions need to be cancelled.

I think this should be the third thing everyone sorts out, after making a will and setting up a lasting power of attorney. In other words, the third document to die for.

The will deals with your legal instructions. The power of attorney handles decisions if you’re incapacitated. The When I Die File is the roadmap that lets the people you love follow those instructions without months of detective work.

Why I finally did it

If I’m honest, I’d put it off for the same reason most people do: it felt morbid, complicated, and destined to be half-finished. But the reality is, not doing it is far worse.

When someone dies, their loved ones aren’t just grieving — they’re suddenly the administrator of a messy, complex life. Even the most organised person leaves behind a maze of accounts, policies, bills, and personal arrangements. And unless you’ve written it all down, someone is going to spend weeks on hold to banks, HMRC, or pension providers trying to piece together the picture.

What’s in mine

I started with the basics:

• Executors’ names, contact details, and what my will says about them.

• Where the will is stored and how to retrieve it.

• Financial adviser details (and in my case, a note to say: trust this person).

• Bank accounts, credit cards, and savings — down to the last Premium Bond.

• Pensions, AVCs, and investments, with contacts for everyone.

• Business arrangements and what happens to my work.

• Property details, vehicle ownership and any obscure assets.

• Digital subscriptions and accounts that need to be closed.

I also included some personal notes for my executors, guidance on conversations that will need to happen, who should have them, and who should avoid them. Those aren’t strictly necessary, but they’ll make life easier when emotions are running high.

It’s not a one-off job

The most important thing I’ve learned is that a When I Die File isn’t a set-and-forget task. It’s a living document. Bank accounts close, investments change, and people move. My plan is to keep it in an easily accessible digital format, update it whenever something significant changes, and regularly send an update to my executors.

Why it matters

I’ve seen families torn apart after a death, not because of the grief, but because the practicalities became overwhelming. Disputes over who gets what are often really disputes about who has to do the work, who feels shut out, and who ends up in the dark.

A good When I Die File removes the uncertainty. It replaces guesswork with clarity. It’s a gift to the people you love, one that spares them unnecessary stress at the worst possible time.

If you’ve already got a will and a lasting power of attorney, you’re two-thirds of the way there. Make the third part a priority. It’s not morbid. It’s love, written down — and it really is the third document to die for.

Reading

Intermezzo by Sally Rooney. This isn’t the sort of book I’d usually pick up, but a short break in Cornwall proved the perfect setting to listen to it on Audible. In Intermezzo, grief is less a sudden storm than a slow, steady tide, pulling buried emotions to the surface.

Rooney paints it with tiny, precise strokes, creating a tender yet anguished picture of how misunderstandings build over time and unravel at moments of family fracture, such as a death. What makes the story so affecting is her refusal to pin blame on any one character. If blame exists at all, it is shared, woven into the web of relationships and misunderstandings, rather than resting on a single pair of shoulders.

Watching

If Intermezzo shows how a death can widen the cracks in a family, Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Our Little Sister works from the opposite premise. Here, loss brings a fractured family closer. This is a tender, gentle film, steeped in innocence, that unlocks a shared, sustaining love between four sisters. I was mesmerised by the book, but wept uncontrollably at the film. Thoughtful and quietly compelling, it’s a portrait of connection built from small acts of care rather than grand gestures.

Listening

I’ve just realised that most of this newsletter is about death. Let’s hope I’m not predicting anything – or at least not for another three or four decades. These days, though, hardly a day goes by without me talking to friends about pensions and savings. More often than not, it’s to swap snippets from our favourite podcast: Meaningful Money by Pete Matthew. He’s a one-man retirement-adviser sensation. I’ve listened to every episode and bought all his books.