Friday, 4 May 2018


I saw somebody in Ashbourne today who I haven’t seen since before I had the operation. He told me I didn’t look all that well, but I looked better than the last time he’d seen me.

Well now, it seems I looked ill even before I began the struggle through the operation and post-operative trials. Nobody else ever told me that, not even him. And the hairdresser who came yesterday was the latest to offer the shattering observation that I’ve lost weight. And several other people told me to take care of myself, so I suppose I’d better. What I don’t understand is why anybody should care.

On a completely unrelated note, I’m becoming a bit edgy over the Lady B’s confinement. She’s due to give birth some time this month and the prospect is inclining me to a vague desire to pace up and down the room, chain smoking and being startled by the sound of every door opening.

It goes without saying that I won’t because that would be silly and whoever heard of me being silly? I suppose I could write to her and wish her the best of luck, and I would if only I could be sure that she wouldn’t find my interest in her condition objectionable. But I can’t be sure, so I won’t.

What surprises me is that this is the first time in my life that I’ve felt disposed to welcome a visit from somebody to show me her new baby. She won’t, of course, partly because it isn’t her way and partly because nearly everything that happens to me lately seems designed to teach me hard lessons. Hardly anything I ever want to happen actually does.

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