Some replies are eminently sensible. Dame Judi Dench, for instance, intends to learn a new poem, or at least a new word, every day, as a way of keeping her mind busy. The idea is, I suppose, that the memory is a sort of muscle which must be kept active if it isn't to waste away. Learning a poem, doing crossword puzzles, paying cards or chess, all fit the bill. When Anthony Powell's Journals – written in old age after his novel-writing career was over – were published, some expressed disappointment at some of what was revealed. I was impressed by the intellectual vitality he retained in his eighties - reading, for instance, a Shakespeare play almost every month. A good way to keep going, I thought.
I know it's not going to happen now. In my seventies, I lack the intellectual, imaginative and physical energy to bring it off. But top of any bucket list remains the hope that I can go on writing novels good enough to be the best I can do now. Almost half a century ago Eric Linklater, the finest Scottish of the mid-twentieth century, was asked what had been the happiest time of his life. "When I was writing a novel and it was going well," he replied = adding, sadly, "and I don't think that's going to happen again".
Thirty per cent of the respondents said that travel was their top wish during retirement, with Australia the most popular destination, followed by the United States, New Zealand, Canada and China. Not for me: all these destinations require long air journeys. Anyway, I prefer to return to places where I have been happy: Paris, Provence, Rome, Naples, Capri, Calabria, the Black Forest, any of these would do. I wouldn't mind taking a train to Moscow, though since my only previous visit was in the dog-days of the Soviet Union, culture shock might be too much for me.
Sporting ambitions, such as they were - mostly idle daydreams - went long ago. Because they were never realistic there are no regrets, or very few; I would have liked to own a steeplechaser and see it win a race, any race really. I used to be envious of Alan Ross, poet and editor of The London Magazine (where he was the first person to publish me): he got as much pleasure from his racehorses as from his magazine, or from cricket, which he wrote about very well for The Observer.
Thinking of that, I would still like to be at Lord's for an Ashes Test and watch a batsman I admire – say Ian Bell or Joe Root – score a century against Australia. And of course I would like to see Scotland beat England at Twickenham, something that has happened only twice in my lifetime. I was there on the second occasion; it was a poor match but a great result.
Otherwise, one is left with the reflection that one has belonged to a very lucky generation, one which has lived in a time of peace, with no experience of a European war. I would wish as much for my grandchildren.
So what's left? Chief, I suppose, is the hope that I will go, not too painfully, before my mind does. There are, I read, some 800,000 people in the United Kingdom suffering from dementia; and, thanks to medical advances which take care of the body and cure what used to be incurable, there is going to be an awful lot more of them. I've no wish to be part of that frightening statistic. Let me say "goodbye to all this" when I still know what I'm saying goodbye to.
Source : http://telegraph.feedsportal.com/c/32726/f/564649/s/3fa448cf/sc/36/l/0L0Stelegraph0O0Chealth0Celderhealth0C1117490A90CWhats0Eon0Emy0Ebucket0Elist0ETo0Ecome0Eto0Eterms0Ewith0Ethe0Epast0Bhtml/story01.htm