The smell of full-on disaster hung heavy. The phone had rung unexpectedly the previous day and my wife Sally had answered it. These days I seldom do so myself as it’s always bad news. My library book is overdue, someone’s colostomy bag is overflowing, or something.

“It’s Arnie,” she said. I couldn’t remember an Arnie. “The man you sold your beach house to.” I shuffled slowly to the receiver. “Well, thanks to Hurricane Sandy, it’s now 500 yards down the road,” Arnie said. I let out an involuntary gut bubble. It’s the kind of thing that tends to happen when you’re 68. Life’s not all bad.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I didn’t quite know what to say. “You’re a realtor,” he added. “I was a realtor,” I corrected him. I didn’t need to say “and not a very good one at that” because that was understood. I’d never really been a success at anything but being unsuccessful. I wasn’t sure quite what I was supposed to do for Arnie. The fact was I didn’t really care that much one way or the other, and I had an appointment at the periodontist, but I figured more was required of me, so I agreed to drive out to meet him.

He had aged badly since I last saw him. “You look great,” I lied. “So do you,” he said. “What about this piece-of-shit house?” I looked around at the flattened plot. “Maybe you could sell it to someone who wanted to rebuild on it,” I suggested. “What do you think of Obama?” he asked. “He’s OK, I suppose,” I said.

A few days before Christmas, when Sally was out counselling the grief-stricken, I was about to leave the house to do my weekly session reading to the blind – they don’t notice if you miss a sentence or two – when the doorbell rang. I thought about ignoring it but then remembered the curtains were open and I could be seen from outside.

“Hello,” said a black woman. “I’m Mrs Pines. You don’t know me, but I grew up in this house. Can I come in?” There wasn’t any good reason not to let her in, so I sat her down and let her waffle on while my mind drifted to my own failures, the death of my son and my increasing invisibility.

“So,” she said, “my father took my mother and brother down into the cellar and killed them both, before turning the gun on himself. He would have killed me too, only I was late back from school.”

What was I supposed to say to that? If I didn’t leave soon, I wouldn’t be back home in time to walk the dog. “That’s bad,” I said, pushing her out of the door. Luckily, Sally turned up at that moment to remind me I had to visit my first wife, Ann, in her care home to hand over her Christmas present.

Ann’s progressive, degenerative and fatal illness has made her a bit more attractive than I remember, and I got a boner when I walked into her room. “You can put that away,” she snapped. I sat down and we chatted about this and that. Had I paid my bill to the IRS? How were our children? I tried not to look out the window too much, or to let her see I was checking my watch. There was a ballgame I wanted to get home for. “Are you doing as little with your life as ever?” she asked. “I’ve bought you a pillow,” I said. “I will see you next week if you’re still alive.” It’s almost love.

I was wrapping my present to myself – a litre of engine sump oil – on Christmas Eve with the radio on, when the presenter said: “If there’s a Frank Bascombe out there, Olive Medley wants you to visit him. He’s dying.” Fucking hell, I sighed, not another one. I hadn’t seen Eddie – sorry, Olive – he thought that joke was terrific – for years. I’d thought he was a bore then and the last thing I wanted to do was waste a day seeing another person who was dying.

“You should go,” said Sally, so I got in the car and drove down the street. Olive was right. He was dying. “You look shit,” I said. He stared up at me. “There was one thing I wanted to tell you,” he croaked. “I once fucked your wife Ann.” I drove home. I wasn’t that bothered. I was so old I’d have probably forgotten all about it by tomorrow.

Digested read, digested: Happy fucking Christmas.