On Faces, Plums, and the Fate of a Hero.

Every time I look in the mirror these days I’m reminded that human faces emulate plums as life and the ageing process takes its toll. They both start off firm, smooth, finely proportioned, and flawless, and stay like that for a period of time. And then the change begins, almost imperceptibly at first, and gathers pace until the change to something that’s lost its form and taken on a sagging aspect becomes undeniable. It becomes soft and creased and stained with unwholesome little marks, and is then only suitable for casting aside to make its inevitable return to the land.

‘What about prunes?’ I hear you ask. ‘What about mummies?’ is the best I can offer in reply.

And maybe I should offer my apologies to French people of delicate constitution for noting that today is Trafalgar Day in Britain, although nobody mentions it any more and I suspect very few people are even aware of the fact. It was a Monday that year, apparently, and I once read that our hero Horatio was shot at 1315 by a French sniper in the Redoutable. I suppose his death must have been regarded as something of a tragedy at the time, but at least he avoided moving into the overripe plum stage a few years down the line.

(Although heaven knows what he did look like when they brought his body back to Blighty, it having been pickled in spirits – probably rum, I expect – for what was quite a slow journey in those days. It was the first thing I thought about when I first read about the death of Nelson as a boy. ‘I wonder what he looked like when they brought him ashore.’ An early sign of my strangeness, no doubt.)