I, A Late Riser, Fantasise

I'm A Century Old, An Impossible Age, And My Brain Has No Anchor In The Present. Instead It Drifts, Nearly Always To The Same Shore. Today, As Most Days, It Is 1962. The Year I Discovered Love.

It's Not That He Lacked Poetry. But His Poetry Was Of The Body, Not The Mind. He Spoke It In The Way He Moved, The Way He Held A Hammer, Rowed A Boat, Built A Fire. I, On The Other Hand, Was Like A Brain In A Box, A Beating Heart In A Coal Scuttle.

My Daughter Is A Fantastic Travelling Companion - She's Totally Organised, Whereas I'm Hopeless.

And After Awhile Of This My Brain And My Body And Every Single Inch Of Me That Was Alive Was Flooded With The Feeling That I Was Starving, Starving For Edmond. And What A Coincidence, That Was The Feeling I Loved Best In The World.

If There Was Ever A More Perfect Day In The History Of Time It Isn't One I've Heard About.