It’s strange being in a place where I spent so much happy time in what must now be counted as the moderately distant past, and that temporal discombobulation showed itself in a dream I had last night. There, I was asked, in some kind of social situation, how old I was. “Twenty-six,” I replied automatically. Even in my dream this sounded a little odd, so my dream-self corrected it: “I mean, thirty-six.”
Then I awoke, and realised the truth - that I was in fact forty-six - or rather (as I became a little less bleary) fifty-six. That was my final bid for the moment, but a very salutary wakening it had been. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that, when I was a York habitue, I really was in my mid-twenties?
My supervisor, meanwhile, who retired a few years ago, was embarrassed two nights ago because he unthinkingly cut the boil-in-the-bag fish he was making for supper out of its bag and put it into the oven on a baking tray. The truth is that it tasted perfectly fine, but he dwelt on his error, until I told him:
“It’s not a senior moment; it’s an emeritus moment.”
The conceit pleased him.