When I was at my mother’s place at Easter, she got out the old photos, as usual, and we looked through them. There were some of when I was a baby, of course. Now, I was the ugliest baby imaginable. I had a mop of black curly hair which my mother used to scrape from my face and tie in a huge bow that looked like a helicopter. And I was incredibly fat and grumpy-looking. I hope I’ve improved, though I have a theory that if you want to see what you’ll look like when you’re old, you should look at a photo of yourself as a baby. I hope I’m wrong. Though I guess it would be nice to have the black hair (a bit scary though. And I’ll dispense with the helicopter).

Last night I went to Leeds to see Gary Moore because he’s a million times better live than recorded. When he walked onto the stage, I couldn’t help it, I giggled. He looked funny. Then I realised why: he bore a strong resemblance to me as a baby. His hair wasn’t quite so curly, and it was lighter that mine, but I swear that if you’d gathered up his fringe into a helicopter he would have looked very like me. You see, I told you I was an ugly baby. He played a great set. It was well worth the trip.

I think my old dear is forgetting who I am now. Oh well, that’s the way it goes. Does it have to go like that? Because I don’t want it. There’s a nice book by Romain Gary, la vie devant soi. There’s a character in the book, an old man, who talks about the love of his young life, and how he’ll never forget her. Then he develops Alzheimer’s, and he forgets. That bit made me cry. Combined with Rory’s lyrics in Wave myself goodbye: “maybe one day I’ll even forget your name”, with the subtext “as if!”. It’s who you are, it’s too sad to lose yourself so comprehensively. Damn. Intellectual paralysis. I should be writing an essay now and I’m doing this instead. Bah! La femme rompue, too. I love that story. It hurts.