There is for me always a lax element to Sunday morning. Everybody sleeps in. Nobody I know goes to church (though I enjoy listening to choral classics by St Martin-in-the-Fields). Except in emergency I cling to the patently old-fashioned view that there is no shopping on Sunday. A late brunch is always tolerated.  And token exercise by walking or cycling throughout the community is popular – punctuated naturally by casual conversation.

I began the day today later than I would normally prefer. It was almost precisely ten o’clock. Lately my sleeps have been mercurial – ten hours one night, three the next.  Earlier this week for example I awoke at 1:00 am for a drink of water. I decided to set myself in front of my computer to write. It wasn’t until ten o’clock that evening that I returned to the lair.  I have never been one for afternoon naps; but I have discovered that old age and dormancy are generally inseparable.

Having been for my constitutional bicycle ride a moment ago I can report that the traffic about town is generally depressed. There is however a noticeable increase of visitors, people who by their unaccustomed reserve instantly identify themselves as interlopers.  Perhaps the motive in particular today is the coincidence of Thanksgiving and the traditional tour of autumn leaves in the country.

By contrast we shall soon be directing ourselves to the urban home of my sister where we will congregate with a small collection of local family. I shall no doubt in the process reacquaint myself with the mysteries of parenting. My sister seemingly inherited my late mother’s incomparable culinary skills though she would never admit to the celebrity. The journey there and back will constitute what would be my usual motoring adventure – though clearly in the opposite direction. Coincidentally this morning on the bike trail when chatting with friends the subject arose of avoiding the traffic in the city. It too is becoming characteristic of old age.