My shoes are still wet and muddy from yesterday's solitary walk to Squabb Wood. The poem I wrote about the experience seems, in retrospect, as ill-advised as the route.
A surprise in this morning's post. It's a letter from my fifty-four-year-old self, advising me that it really does get better. "Go easy on yourself," it read. "You're special - the only you in the whole wide world. Think of that!"
So, there you have it. It seems I'm destined to become a pompous bore. But when? Has the process already begun? Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse.
Perhaps I could grow to love Sham 69, in time.