I decided to do some press-ups. They’re good for you, apparently. A calisthenic classic. This much I picked up in a doomscrolling session. Some algorithm somewhere must have decided I’d be open to the idea and, not for the first time, the algorithm was right.

I used to do lots of press-ups, perhaps 20 or 30, most days. I can recall how this started. It was 1985 and I was spending a gap year working for my dad’s scaffolding company. That I was the boss’s son didn’t stop my workmates from sharing with me their thoughts on my shortcomings. One such shortcoming was identified by a muscly scaffolder called Andy. “Your arms are puny,” he told me. “Do some press-ups,” Andy advised. So that’s what I did, and my arms bulked up a bit. Thank you, Andy.

I lay there face down, nose buried in a shaggy bedside rug, lamenting my decline

That’s how the press-up habit started, but I couldn’t remember why it stopped. No worries. Time to........

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