I don’t leave the flat for a
few days, and have only an occasional Harry for company, as much as a cat can
ever be called company. Joe phones a few
times to check on me and to suggest a drink, but I am not in the mood. I spend the slow-passing days in reflection,
pondering the younger me, so full of hopes and dreams, and wonder what that
younger man would say now.
“Look at you, old man,” he
might say. “A sorry wreck you are.”
I wouldn’t know how to
respond, or even whether he’d listen to anything this old man had to say.
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