I am quite often an observer of my own life. I think that is how it has to be at the moment, in fact I think the act of observation will help me to live in this life without the observation. I’m going to transcribe a few things I wrote in my notebook this morning on the way to see Tom and and Zoë of course Erin. There is something wonderful and magical about having grandchildren. I looked down at her today at one moment and realised that the future is assured. Mankind has survived to produce another generation. OK I’m overstating it. But no, no I’m not. A young family exists and human life continues in Bishops Waltham and Tom is my son and Erin is my granddaughter. Wow.

From my notebook

Something has happened. I’m feeling extraordinarily happy for no particular reason. I noticed the birds singing this morning, the sunshine. Again I come to the realisation that I am not afraid of dying, and to be not afraid of dying means that every moment is perfect. And sure I may plan things, but the pleasure is in the planning, not the thing planned. The thing planned is not within my purview to enjoy at the moment, only the planning.

So I can enjoy the sunshine and the birds singing as I walk to the station, I can write this on the train, I can marvel at the man cycling across the middle of a field. This is life, in its entirety. It makes me happy. And I can be amused by the fact that I’m travelling on the 10.25 train which arrived at 10.30 and not the 10.35 which was cancelled or the 10.07 which has not arrived yet.

I’m tired now, I’ve eaten supper and had a glass of wine, and I am a little puzzled by my earnestness, my intense self-reflection. I’m not as buoyant as I was this morning and I think it is good to notice that. I suspect that these few words are their own solution, a way to understand being alive in all its facets. I suspect this understanding, if it does come, will come later, like the laughter that occurs, as I read somewhere, at the moment of death, when we realise what this life was all about.