The spleen. My ruptured spleen. I looked the word up in an encyclopedia. ‘A small purplish red organ that lies under the diaphragm. The spleen acts as a filter against foreign organisms that infect the bloodstream.’ In the crash my spleen burst. In medieval times the spleen was regarded as the source of melancholy emotions in man. Hence ‘splenetic’

And suddenly I wonder: is it more of my bad luck to have been born when I was, at the beginning of this century and not be able to be young at its end? I look enviously at these kids and think about the lives they are living – and will live – and posit a kind of future for them. And then, almost immediately, I think what a futile regret that is.

So now I sit in an umbrella’s circle of shade on the planked deck of a beach shack, a beer in my hand and a book in my lap, and I look at the people as they come and go and listen to the crash and hiss of the breakers as they curve in, flatten and explode on the sand. I must do this every year, while I have the money and the strength – good for the

Maybe this is the answer – maybe this is how to find true contentment – to live your life within confined horizons. To set modest goals, achievable ambitions.

David Gascoyne1 once told me that the only point of keeping a journal was to concentrate on the personal, the diurnal minutiae, and forget the great and significant events in the world at large. The newspapers cover all that, anyway, he said. We don’t want to know that ‘Hitler invaded Poland’ – we’re more curious about what you had for breakfast.

Hot crumpets with butter and jam – what could be more ambrosial? The day I can’t enjoy these pleasures will signal some kind of death of the soul.

Last week I planted an acer in the furthest bed from the house, in honour of our new baby. The sapling is as tall as me and, by all accounts, it can grow forty feet tall. So, in thirty years’ time, if we’re still here I can come back and see this tree in its maturity. But the thought depresses me: in thirty years’ time I’ll be in my mid sixties and

A horrible thought: could this be the pattern of my life ahead? Every ambition thwarted, every dream stillborn? But a second’s reflection tells me that what I’m currently experiencing is shared by all sentient, suffering human beings, except for the very, very few: the genuinely talented – the odd, rare genius – and, of course, the exceptionally

(I must get to know the names of flowers – it annoys me, this ignorance. If I can name a dozen trees, flowers shouldn’t be beyond me).