Closing the Book.

I haven't had my usual session with dear Virginia tonight because I've been regaling my imaginary friend with stories of my failures with women between the ages of 21 and 45. It seems that failures make much more interesting and amusing stories than successes, and I suppose that's why we Brits -- and the Irish too, I do believe -- like to recount our failures and even take a kind of perverse pride in them. They usually cause our audience to either gasp or laugh, you see, and what better denouement could possibly be wished?

And after the euphoria of failure died down I was reminded again of how the unfortunate conjunction of rake, romantic, and Romantic in my nature always guaranteed failure, one way or another, eventually.

Now all I want is my sunshine back, but she's too busy and is evidently disinclined to shine on me anyway. And so I must accept that my book of female failures is finished for this lifetime. No epilogue to finish with, and given my age it's perfectly acceptable that so it should be. Both successes and failures (which Mr Kipling described as 'those two imposters') were a mixture of fun and pain anyway, so that's one roller coaster I no longer have to ride.