A day of total solitude, of tranquil and perfect beauty by the river. A form of happiness I must try to recapture more often.

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’m simply not equipped, temperamentally, to stay at home and live a circumscribed, rural, English life. I absolutely need variety and surprise; I have to have the city in my life – I’m essentially urban by nature – and also the prospect and reality of travel. Otherwise I’ll desiccate and die.

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.

Very hush-hush, I said. How wonderful to be able to use that expression in all seriousness.

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

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.

The pleasures of my life here are simple – simple, inexpensive and democratic. A warm hill of Marmande tomatoes on a roadside vendor’s stall. A cold beer on a pavement table of the Café de France – Marie Thérèse inside making me a sandwich au camembert. Munching the knob off a fresh baguette as I wander back from Sainte-Sabine. The farinaceous

Why do we urge ourselves on in this way, us journal-keepers? Do we fear the constant threat of backslide in us, the urge to tinker and cover up? Are there aspects of our lives – things we do, feel and think – that we daren’t confess, even to ourselves, even in the absolute privacy of our private record? Anyway, I’m sure I vowed to tell the truth,