January 2020 . . . .

“It is absolutely within the realm of possibility that I am losing it (and other private thoughts that have escaped from the asylum).”
     By midwinter I tend to look homeless. Need a shave, a haircut, sunshine. I wear sweaters beneath my jacket, and they hang out. This used to be radically cool — when RAF flyers were the wizards of the air — with long turtle-neck sweaters and short wool jackets. And scarves. Goggles. OK — belay the goggles, but cool hats, tipped jauntily. And they were twenty-two or -three years old, so, there’s that. I am nowhere near twenty-three anymore, and tip well past the maximum weight for a Supermarine Spitfire. (Still, I have dreams I am in a kite over Herefordshire or Hampshire armwrestling Dorniers or some such. This is all a synaptic manufacture of my still childish dreams, but I wake up feeling like a Player and a cup of tea. I hope this never goes away, is what I’m saying.)

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