It’s curry night, and Graham will be cooking. I know I’ve asked him at least twice what type of curry it’ll be but I’ve forgotten the answer. Again. Happens rather a lot, does that, but it doesn’t really matter. It’ll be delicious, whatever, and I may even remember what it’s called after I’ve eaten it.
For the most part it’s been a lovely sunny day, not too cold, and not threatening to get cold. The sky has been a rolling diorama of cloudscapes. You know, galleons under full sail, flocks of sheep… the clichés go on and on. Down here in our little valley we are sheltered from both sunrises and sunsets, which does mean at least that I’m not tempted to describe them. There are only so many words to describe the sun setting. It’s up in the sky and then… it’s not. Really and truly, unless you’re into ecstasy, there’s nothing more to be said about it.
Graham says that when I’m 92 years old he’ll let me take up smoking again. Until then he says I’d be best advised to forget about it.
After a long pause, I said: “OK. It’s a deal.”
“What is?”
“You mean you’ve forgotten what you just said?”
“So?”
“Ah well. Who needs to remember an unseen sunset anyway?”
“Sometimes I worry about you.”
