In 2021, I thought a lot about retirement – specifically about when exactly retirement might live up to the hype.

My husband and I retired 5 years ago. We’d always planned to retire at 60 in the hope that we’d still be able-bodied enough to fill our days with the things we squeezed into a few hours when we were working: walks, gardening, swimming, those sorts of things. I’d imagined I’d get stuck into my to-read pile, and my husband had wanted to get his head round some new software that would help him add music to the fuzzy moving pictures from childhood cine films.

We were lucky. When we retired, we were fit and healthy and excited by the idea that we would at last have free time. Until they are retired, very few people experience extended periods of time that are genuinely ‘free’, completely devoid of obligations. Free from the education system; free from deadlines; free from the need to make money; free from childcare responsibilities.

This year, I’ve thought a lot about how – in many ways – we are still waiting for our retirement to begin.

We always looked forward to the weekend, and perhaps even more so when we had kids. It was a 2-day haven in which we mistakenly thought we’d relax. We had wonderful day trips but relaxing would be an inaccurate adjective. Take a simple trip to a country park, for example. This, ideally, required a family-sized car with a boot big enough for the pushchair to fit comfortably and still have room for wipes, changes of clothes, child-friendly food that won’t squelch everywhere, picnic rug, footballs, frisbee. The list was endless.

When we arrived at our destination, we looked for a parent and child parking spot. It fit the bill of being near the amenities and had lots of space around it so that we could set up the pushchair comfortably and the kids wouldn’t slam our battered car doors into a Merc in a clumsy, uncoordinated-limb-flurry.

In the early days, parenthood was planning inexpensive, stimulating and wholesome family days out with a series of mini risk assessments on the side. As our children grew older their interests became more complex. After school, time was planned around Brownies, swimming lessons, gymnastics club, piano lessons.

Almost as soon as our adult children left a gap in our lives, my elderly mother filled it. People are living longer thanks to the marvellous leaps in medical knowledge and better nutrition.

I know it’s not her fault. In fact, she reminds me with morbid regularity that she won’t be here forever and that she did not choose to live to this age. She frequently reassures me that I will get my well-deserved retirement (and I frequently wonder if I’ll be in a wheelchair by then). Her mobility is terrible but we take her out and about a few times a week.

This, ideally, requires a family-sized car with a boot big enough for the wheelchair to fit comfortably and still have room for wipes, extra layers of clothes, denture-friendly food that won’t squelch everywhere, picnic rug to cover her knees. The list is endless.

When we arrive at our destination, we look for a disabled parking spot. It fits the bill of being near the amenities and has lots of space around it so that we can set up the wheelchair comfortably and mum won’t slam our battered car doors into a Merc in a clumsy, uncoordinated-limb-flurry.

As my mum gets older her needs have become more complex. Our time is planned around chiropodists, eye clinics, warfarin appointments and GP surgeries.

Being unofficial carers means planning inexpensive, stimulating trips out with a series of mini risk assessments on the side.

All of it is exhausting and most of it is worth it. But we didn’t choose this.

Interestingly, conversations with our friends confirm we’re not alone. We seem to be part of a leisure-less generation: retired empty nesters but not yet footloose and fancy free.

Instead of asking after the wellbeing of each other's children, we find ourselves enquiring after the health of each other’s parents. We would once have been laughing about a mischievous incident concerning one of our children at school. Now we find ourselves horrified about the latest swear word our once respectable parents have called a poor healthcare worker. Years ago we would have chatted about our teenager’s choices at university and what advantages each one had. Nowadays conversations have shifted to care homes and what facilities they have.

It also feels like our generation is lumbered with gender stereotypes: as her daughter, mum sees her care as being my responsibility because she cared for her parents briefly. It seems my brother sees it that way too. My husband absolutely does not.

Since I wrote this back in August, Mum has been accepted into a care home full time and thank god for the kindness, humour and patience of carers. They are under-appreciated and unsung heroes of modern life.

My husband and I have not felt the full force of the respite just yet – there is a home to sell, solicitors and estate agents to grapple with, and memories to retrieve and distribute. There’s also a mystery to solve regarding a bra thief at the care home and constant questions to field about why all the other people in there are so completely boring and spend their days asleep. But the free time is coming. We can almost see it.