The Wrong Way to Judge a Book.

The following conversation took place yesterday. The opening line came from the farmer out with his tractor trimming the hedgerows in my part of the Shire:

‘You look well this year.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. I meant to tell you that the other day. For the last couple of years you’ve looked a bit peaky, but you look much better this year.’

So there you have it; time seems to be going backwards for me. If only I felt better.

The man who said it is in his fifties and the very embodiment of bucolic stock – heavy-set, ruddy faced, hands like hams, strong local accent – a veritable bull of a man from whom you would expect great physical strength and practical acumen, but probably little advanced erudition.

And then the conversation turned to subject of mortality and finished with me quoting a line from Shakespeare: Our little lives are rounded with a sleep.

At that the floodgates opened and he waxed eloquent about how much he loved Shakespeare because every situation you might encounter in life is contained therein.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, how deceptive appearances can be and that still waters often run deeper than you expect. And the old adage that a book should never be judged by its cover was given a fresh airing.