V.S.P.

A sign of old age in myself is that, knowing my time is limited, I find myself looking at streets and their architecture much longer and more intensely and at Nature and landscape. I gaze at the plane tree at the end of the garden, studying its branches and its leaves. I look a long time at flowers. And I am always on the watch for the dramatic changes in the London sky.

--V.S.P.

No, not read. Too late to start. But the small sketch (in one of Dougal's books) did leave an impression. 

And now? As age has caught up with you and you find yourself catching your breath on the stairs. Or forgetting names or squinting to make out the face of the person walking towards you. Who the hell is that?!

The old practical ways, inherited from Ubo, linger on somewhere deep down. There seems to be less and less to say- and I don't know how to say it. Ignore the signs, don't look for wisdom. Carry on, in fact, as the clown you've always been. 

I can't say that life is narrowing down appreciably because it's always been- at least in some sense-narrow. Out of choice more than circumstance it has to be said. A needless distinction, perhaps, for how is one's character distinguished from the times one lives in?Still, you note the old Puritan hat you wear with some distinction (not pride) is nearly threadbare after all these years. Most of my clothes have holes in them for some odd reason. Moths or just general wear and tear.  

The other, special hat of yours you keep safe on the top shelf for Christmas visits to London has been worn only once, the day after your birthday. It blew onto the tracks at Woodford and stayed there all night. Recovered it on Sunday morning and was amazed to see that after a brief dusting off it was as good as new! So, there it rests, along with the other hats and the unworn ties from the 1970s (why did Ubo have so many brown ties, you wonder).

I don't study anything with any attentiveness. Instead, drift, drift. There's been no change in the sky for six hours now (if that helps). The only tree that exerts a magnetic pull on me is a million miles away, north by north-west... There is a road, there is a word, that would make sense of all of this, if I only I could find it (okay, okay, James Salter, if you must).

A sign of old age is that there are fewer signs and you don't know who you are. Apart from that, all's swell.