Here I am, two hours into my 65th year, farting, belching, dribbling and ... where was I? Ah yes, wheezing. You might say: "What do you expect if you continue to smoke 65 cigarettes a day?" I won't mind if you do; it's a conversation I have each day with myself. I hate being this old, this debilitated and it's a sad truth that I'm a great deal nastier than I was ... oh, a year ago.

The doorbell rang this evening, but neither Vic nor I could be bothered to answer it as we assumed it was burglars. We later ran into Harold and Antonia in the restaurant and Harold told us he's got cancer of the oesophagus. First Ian, now Harold. At least Harold's still alive. It wasn't meant to be this way: it was always our assumption that I'd die first. I almost made it a few years back when my liver collapsed under the effects of years of hard drinking. But I came back from the dead and ... well, I'm still here.

The only writer who ever made a real difference to me was Hank Janson. In the early 1950s he wrote what would now be called erotic thrillers. My brother Nigel and I kept a goodly selection, though I suspect I was rather more fervid in my enthusiasm for the Janson oeuvre. Mummy was careful to leave me to him: but then our family was always careful to leave distances between each other. It was Granny who told me that Mummy had flown home to London to be with Father, leaving us boys to see out the war in Canada. I wonder if she knew about Father's affairs?

*From the digested read at The Guardian