Bernard Michael Rochford's Defence of the Afternoon Nap

Once upon a time, naps were for toddlers and the very unwell. At least that’s what I thought.

Now, in this glorious stretch of life known as retirement, I can confidently say: Bernard Michael Rochford naps. Frequently. Proudly. Without apology.

I don’t mean accidental dozing off during the news (though that happens too). I mean a proper, planned, stretch-out-on-the-couch-with-a-light-blanket-and-no-shame kind of nap. The kind where you lose thirty minutes, wake up slightly confused, and feel like you’ve been gently rebooted.

It’s become something of a ritual.

After lunch—often something modest like a sandwich or a bowl of soup—I do a quick tidy, make a cup of tea, and then… I vanish. No fanfare. No announcement. Just a slow shuffle toward the lounge, where the blanket already lives and the afternoon light filters through the curtains like it knows exactly what I’m about to do.

Here’s the secret, though: it’s not about the sleep itself. It’s about the permission. The world tells us to go-go-go. Even in retirement, people ask, “So what are you doing to keep busy?” as if stillness is a crime. But an afternoon nap? That’s a quiet rebellion. A gentle refusal to be constantly productive.

I used to resist them. I’d sit there, heavy-eyed, pretending to read a book while my head bobbed like it was on a fishing line. “I’ll power through,” I’d say. Why? For whom? What important task was I rushing toward? Folding laundry could wait. The basil wasn’t going anywhere.

Now, I listen to the signs. When my body says, “You know what would be great right now?” I agree with it. I stretch out. I close my eyes. I let the world spin on without me for a bit.

And you know what? It always manages just fine.

Of course, not all naps are created equal. Too long, and you wake up groggy and mildly annoyed at time itself. Too short, and you feel cheated. But hit that sweet spot—somewhere between 20 and 40 minutes—and you wake feeling like a brand-new man. A man ready to water the plants, write a strongly worded letter to the council about footpath maintenance, or simply eat a biscuit and stare into space.

Sometimes, the cat joins me. She stretches out at the end of the couch and gives me a look that says, “Finally, you get it.” We nap in solidarity, two unlikely allies united by a shared love of not doing anything for a while.

So if you ever call and I don’t answer between 1 and 3pm, don’t worry. I’m not out. I’m just horizontal.

Because in this phase of life, I’ve discovered that productivity is overrated—but rest? Rest is an art form.

Bernard Michael Rochford
Retired Osteopath | Afternoon Dozer | Professional Recharger of Self and Soul