The problem with being old – or as old as I am – is that there’s an overabundance of memories.
Travelling on my own – seeing people like I used to be: stressed.
When I missed the train into town from the airport by less than a second and it, with relentless Teutonic efficiency, closed on my nose and drew away on the dot, I didn’t tell myself I was stupid for being slow, or that it was unfair. I found somewhere to sit in that featureless underground station and I read my book (Arnold Bennett’s Old Wives’ Tale, if you’re interested, and I’m loving it). A family next to me also missed the train. The parents spoke with strained voices, blaming one another. That used to be me. Horrible. Continue reading Footloose And Fancy Free