Now I’m 64

“What popular song includes the following in its lyric: losing my hair, Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine, 64 and Wight?” If you don’t know the answer, there’s really no hope for you. Would you Adam and Eve it? That day, for me, has finally arrived.

Once you’re the far side of 25 it’s difficult to distinguish one birthday from the next unless they have a “special” status. My 20th (14 February 1975) was one I do remember. I was scheduled to have a Portuguese tutorial at King’s College in London, Prof Tom Earle having taken a sabbatical. I would take the 190 bus to Victoria in the morning, read out my essay, see a few people I knew, then get the bus back to Oxford.

I’d written a decent enough essay. My tutorial ended with a birthday glass of sherry, courtesy of Prof Luís de Sousa Rebelo. We agreed the date of my next tutorial, which turned out to be the date of the Moorgate Tube Disaster. Then I met a couple of old friends from the Wirral who were studying Medicine at King’s, and we had a pint or two.

One theory (and the one I prefer) is that Valentine’s Day is celebrated on 14 February because it was believed to be the day on which the birds start to sing (i.e. the first day of spring), which might indeed be the case south of Rome. In Britain, of course, it’s the middle of winter, though any sort of weather is possible. As I write, it is indeed springlike in Herne Hill.

But it was dark, cold and beginning to snow when the 190 pulled into Gloucester Green. Alison was supposed to be coming down from Durham that evening, so it was my intention not to “overdo” it, although I’d planned to lead my mates on a pub crawl through East Oxford. The weather was worsening, and I was going down with a cold and feeling a bit rough. But the show must go on.

We set off up the Iffley and down the Cowley before docking, four hours later, at the Kashmir for the inevitable Chicken Vindaloo. Somewhere on this Ulyssian itinerary I cut my hand (the details are conveniently hazy). Leaving the others to deal with the bill, and with most of a toilet roll wrapped round my hand as a bandage, I ran all the way to the Radcliffe Infirmary where, after a long wait, I was stitched up by a doctor who looked younger than me. It didn’t look as picturesque as this at 10pm on a February night.

At about 11:30pm, now sober, I made it back to my rooms in Back Quad to find the rest of the crew throwing darts and polishing off my Queen’s College Ruby Port. There was no sign of Aly. But there was a message at the Porter’s Lodge saying she’d arrive at 1pm (i.e. the following afternoon). How disappointing. I fell into bed… after what seemed like a couple of hours there was a knock on the door. I turned the knob with my left hand, half-asleep, wiping my nose on the bandage. There stood someone who had sent me a billet doux, only a year before, saying, “I did not believe such happiness were possible!”.

So where were you?

“I spent all night at St Aldate’s police station as the college door was locked.” My brain struggled to compute. 
“But I thought you were coming at 1pm?” 
“No, 1am. Five hours ago!” The idiot porter Pickavance had taken down her message wrong. I showed her the note.
“Anyway I’m going back to Durham as soon as I’ve had a couple of hours sleep.” And despite my pleas to stay until Sunday, that’s what she did.

That evening, with a streaming nose, a bandaged and throbbing right hand, the remains of a hangover, and thoroughly depressed, I tried to put it all right with a gallon of Hook Norton at Balliol’s Lindsay Bar. The barmen, Dick and Horace, thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. I staggered back to Queen’s Beer Cellar, bouncing off the walls of New College Lane, but I was too far gone to be served. It is hard to imagine how drunk a student has to get to be refused service at his own college bar. My darts mentor, Mike Tracy, had to put me to bed. 

I couldn’t stop crying

A week or so later the penny dropped: my true love and I were finished. Indeed she wrote a letter to make sure I’d understood (at least she had the kindness to wait until Valentine’s Day was over); but we were to remain good friends. Of course we would! There were to be no more “my darling” communications. But I got over it, eventually, and – amazingly – we have remained friends until this day.

Here’s a One For The Wall recording from a few weeks ago. We’re rehearsing a new song of Bernard’s called “Guiding Hand”.

Messages from the Other Side

I hadn’t seen Alison for quite a while but we had stayed in touch over the years. In was 1982 and she was back from Tokyo or Beirut or Damascus, or wherever. For someone who had to resit her A levels, she was heading for a distinguished academic career, which was more than I was. Her parents had acquired a place in Blighty for when they would eventually leave Bahrain and she invited me over for a few days. It was a big terraced house in Preston Drove, a little bit out of Brighton. She had swapped the octagonal pebble glasses for contact lenses and you could see her pretty face and big brown eyes.

Next door lived a gent in his 60s called James Hay-Kellie, who invited us round for a drink. Aly seemed a bit wary but we went anyway. It was one of the most bizarre evenings of my life. Kellie liked to talk, particularly to me; Aly had probably heard it all before. He claimed to have known “The King”, as he referred to him (Edward VIII /David/Duke of Windsor, not Elvis), and “that little tart Wallis Simpson”. Kellie was a yogi and medium whose powers, as Alison noted, seemed to increase as he got stuck into his homemade pear wine. But those powers were unsettling.

“I can see a street sign. Plaza del Sol, in Madrid,” he said, sipping from his murky glass.
“Puerta del Sol?”
“You are standing outside a church. Your name is… Estrada. You are going to the New World but… you will drown on the way. But next time you will go by air because it is the Age of Aquarius not the Age of Pisces and all will be well because you are an Aquarian. But beware of the South American girls because they all have syphilis.”

I’d always fancied being a conquistador, though Estrada is a common enough name. He then asked me a few questions, such as did I speak Spanish or Portuguese? (Both, and pretty well too, because I’d studied them for my degree.) Could Aly have mentioned it by accident and not remembered? In retrospect that seems possible. And my “Aquarian” birthday? (I was born on 14 February.) How the hell could he have known that? I did go to the New World: to Cuba in the 1990s, and to Mexico more recently. And I travelled by aeroplane, of course, and made it home safely.

I wouldn’t say you were a womaniser but…

“There are three women in your life. The truest has brown hair and blue eyes.” He was right to guess that brown-eyed Alison and I were never going to be an item again. There was one lass who fitted his description, such as it was, though that relationship seemed to have run its course. Anyway, it was small beer after the Estrada revelation.

You are a deep thinker, too deep for your own good

He showed me a crucifix he claimed to have found on the Drove, on which Christ was shown crucified upside-down. It had been dropped by a band of satanists on the run, hundreds of years ago. Then he moved into his Indian mode and gave me a mantra to meditate upon. Then he explained how I could clear the phlegm from my nasal passages by inhaling saltwater. I think that would be called bathos in Europe… but maybe not in India. He seemed to be running through his repertoire. It was entertaining, not to say exhausting for all of us.

It’s important to bear in mind that Kellie was not a professional medium (at least not in my case). He claimed he was getting his information from an Indian spirit he called Sadhu. Was he showing off to me? He clearly had always been an exhibitionist, as this photograph shows. Perhaps he could just not help himself?

* * *

I turned round and saw an old man behind me talking but the sound was very muffled. Then I realised I was going deaf. Instead of leaving I followed the woman to the front of the class. Suddenly I knew only she could help me, although I didn’t know if it was her fault that I couldn’t hear in the first place. I heard myself (horrid sound, I knew I was shouting in a desperate voice) say “what’s wrong with me?” She drew on a piece of paper. “Is it like a high whine? A distant motor-bike,” she wrote. I nodded. “Will it go away?” She wrote “blood circulation motor noise” on the paper, then suddenly I could hear again. I turned round and everyone had left. I said “So it will come and go like that?” She said “No. The next time it happens it will be for good”. I said, “But I love music!”

It was late 1983. I was keeping a diary, and now and again I scribbled down a description of my dreams as soon as I woke up. This is, word for word, what I wrote at the time. I was inclined to see it as a metaphor for some emotional turmoil I was going through – which I usually was.

Maybe it was a premonition instead. In those far-off days I didn’t have tinnitus, but I do now. It disappeared for a short time but soon returned, and every day I wish I could be rid of it.

Does any of this make me believe in the paranormal and suchlike? Frankly, no. But I thought I’d get it off my chest.

Moscow in the Dark

October 1979: I was still, or again, (depending on which way you looked at it) studying at The Queen’s College Oxford. The college offered me the exalted and ridiculous-sounding position of Vir Probatus (Junior Dean) if I abandoned the slum that was 41 Bullingdon Road and moved into James Stirling’s (in)famous Florey Building on St Clement’s. As I’d have the biggest room in the building, rent-free and with a free phone line to boot, it was a no-brainer. And the underfloor heating and huge windows offered an excellent environment for cultivating aromatic, jagged-leafed plants. I’d lived there as an undergraduate, so the building itself did not come as a shock. Much has been written about its shortcomings so I’ll move on…

One of the mature students at the Florey was Denis, who was writing a DPhil on Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina manuscripts. He was amusing, kind and very urbane, and became like an uncle to me. There wasn’t much he did not know, in particular about human nature. He had two teenage children by his first wife and a little boy by his second wife, who taught History of Art at the University of Essex. (Later they created an author called Natalya Lowndes and wrote a series of novels together.) Denis and I spent many an hour in the poky-cosy Half Moon in St Clement’s, at that time managed, if that is the right word, by the Leaves brothers. Regular patrons included Steve, owner of Winston’s, the night club next door, and Pat, manager of the Private (i.e. dirty mags and videos) Shop in Cowley Road. It had real ale, no fruit machine or jukebox, and hosted live music on Sunday afternoons.

October 1982: I’d moved on to a flat in Temple Cowley but Denis, my regular drinking partner, was still at the Florey. He needed to do a week’s research in Moscow libraries, and the cheapest and easiest way of doing it was to book an Intourist package, which meant sharing a room. Never having been to Russia, I was happy to tag along. A couple of years earlier the BBC had launched a series called Russian Language and People. It boasted a fantastically beautiful brunette presenter called Tanya Feifer and a fantastically beautiful blonde interviewer called Tatyana Vedeneyeva. (By one of life’s strange coincidences, another presenter, Edward Ochagavia, is a near neighbour of mine in Herne Hill.) Into each episode was inserted a snippet of the tacky love story До свидания, лето with Victor the ordinary-looking taxi driver and a fantastically beautiful student, Olga.

It was early November, and snowing in a picturesque way, when we cleared passport control. My visa was numbered 007, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to make a joke of it. Just grimly stare ahead. At last we arrived at our shabby hotel, a few minutes’ walk from Red Square. The next evening I went on my own to the Bolshoi Ballet: something most Muscovites could never afford to do. The plan was to meet Denis afterwards at his friends’ flat. I hailed a taxi at the Palace of Congresses, indicating the address Denis had written out neatly in Russian. Victor grunted and I got in, trying to make small talk in English, French, German, Italian, Spanish …  to no avail. There didn’t seem much point trying Portuguese, Latin or Greek. I stuck with the few words of Russian I’d learned. He didn’t want my roubles and I had no dollars, so I paid with a BiC pen. 

Хорошо, спасибо, До свидания!

I found myself in an ill-lit street of run-down tenements, like the half-remembered Glasgow of my childhood. I climbed the staircase in trepidation; what would happen when someone opened the door? What if Denis wasn’t there or I’d come to the wrong place? But Denis did come to the door. In the little flat were a middle-aged couple and a girl of about 20. She was slim with long dark hair like Tanya and, I couldn’t help but notice, very pretty. Everyone was smoking black Georgian cigarettes. I took a chair, and a large Столи́чная was poured for me. So began an interminable evening of music, “conversation” and toasting. Their favourite record was “The Sideboard Song” by Chas and Dave, which Denis had brought with him on his last trip. Perhaps the A-side, “Rabbit”, was played out. I contributed “Things We Said Today” by The Beatles, on a very bad, untunable guitar. More beer and vodka and picked cucumbers. More songs.

Luckily for me the pretty girl, Katya, was fluent in Spanish. Uncle Yuri would tell a joke and everyone would laugh; so did I, out of politeness. Denis would explain it to me in English and I’d laugh again. Katya would then ask me in Spanish what he’d said. I would explain it to her and she’d translate for her mother. She’d tell Denis, in Russian, who would then tell me, in English, that he’d said something quite different. One joke could keep us going for 20 minutes. When they did get through, the Russian jokes were good: they exhibited a bitter sarcasm that we Britons found familiar.

What we didn’t know was that more or less as we’d touched down at Sheremetyovo airport, Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev was giving up the ghost. Soon the city-centre was in lock-down. It was snowing hard; the Kremlin was shut, the national museums were shut, and taxis could not get across town. The USSR was in mourning and all you got on the radio and TV was Chopin and Beethoven. We were moved out of our characterful old hotel with its tea-ladies and into a soulless one near the VDNH exhibition centre. Every available room in central Moscow would be needed for the dignitaries coming to pay their respects. We were on a full board deal, but most evenings Denis and I took the metro to the flat, bringing food we’d bought for hard currency at the Beriozka. The two grateful women cooked for us. In the afternoons Katya showed me the sights, and we trudged through the snow, rain and gloom for hours on end. She really was very attractive, if a bit skinny — probably because she wasn’t getting much to eat. I kissed her once, in Spanish.

Obviously Katya and I would never meet again

Except that a couple of years later Katya managed to get a job in Riga as a translator, then met and married a solid Englishman called Smith, and made her escape to London. News of her arrival filtered through to me. One evening they joined us for dinner round the kitchen table in Brixton. Then she lost her aura of mystery and I lost her address.

Enjoy Yourself, it’s Later Than You Think

Jools Holland’s Hootenanny closed, as ever, with this simple ditty. (As regards the show itself, I didn’t enjoy myself very much. Very few plums among the duff. George Ezra? Please explain his popularity because I don’t get it. Who buys this stuff? Even the Teletubbies’ songs were more interesting.) The “enjoy yourself” bit is important, but it’s the “memento mori” that people should ponder… very medieval.

One of the reasons I retired three and a half years ago is that, after a couple of close friends of mine died I realised that it could just as easily happen to me. In fact it was going to happen to me, no question about it.

I’d been at the same place of work for over 25 years. To many people it must have seemed like a very good job, and I used to feel the same way about it. There was no-one I worked with whom I disliked, and many colleagues had become friends. I’d met my wife there. I seemed to be popular and respected for my knowledge and skills. I wasn’t paid a fortune but it was more than enough to get by, once the mortgage was paid off. But I had stopped enjoying going to work – the feeling crept up on me. Of course I could have gone out and got myself another job, or at least made an effort. But I was getting on for 60 and I had done my pension calculations. It wasn’t my job as such but working for other people that was losing its magic. I wanted to take back control.

The previous year I’d been ill myself.  I went to see the doc because my urine was the colour of tea. She looked lovingly into my eyes and said I had jaundice. No alcohol, go immediately to King’s for an X-ray and blood tests. A week or so later I was in a liver ward being tested for everything that has ever given anybody hepatitis. I spent nine days and nights there. It wasn’t cancer, which is nice, but my liver was collapsing.

King’s College Hospital is a fascinating place, if you’re in the mood to appreciate it. Every day I would walk briskly up and down the corridors for exercise, but also because lying in bed with no TV or internet is extremely boring. But sooner or later you have to go back to your ward. If you manage to nod off, day or night, it won’t be for long. A constant stream of nurses and auxiliaries make you get up and wash, stick needles in your arm, take blood pressure tests, clean the bed and mop the floor, change your sheets.

What do you want for breakfast? Would you like a cup of tea? What do you want for lunch? What do you want for dinner? Would you like another cup of tea?

Then the medical students arrive for a chat and a prod. Actually, that is the only good bit – you get to meet young, healthy people and at least you are making yourself useful. In the afternoon the visitors arrive: Job’s comforters, bored teenagers, cute twins, snivelling wives… What do you say to your own visitors? “Tomorrow I’m having a biopsy, with a wire pushed down my jugular vein. Could we possibly talk about something else? But thanks for coming.” Hug.

Every night some fellow inmate was off his head on (prescription?) drugs and shouting the odds, while another was phoning his cousin in Jamaica. You can’t concentrate on your book for long. Without earplugs you are done for. It is a miracle anyone gets better and goes home. There’s all this racket and disruption but also – let’s face it – you’re scared because you might be dying. They may put a screen round the bed but there is zero privacy. Worse than your own condition being broadcast is having to hear about someone else’s – especially when it’s bad news. Stay there for a week and you’d easily have enough material for three episodes of Casualty.

Eventually, and without any medication, I started to get better and was able to walk the mile and a half home. It remains a mystery. If it really was a virus, I’ll have it named after me. I never want to go back there again – lovely though the staff are. I still get queasy seeing King’s from the 68 bus.

Anyway, I digress.

Not going to work won’t stop you from dying, or even getting ill. But you might come to admit to yourself how frustrated you were getting. How you were getting less opportunity to use your skills, intelligence or initiative than you would have liked. I saw myself becoming ever more restless and grumpy. Time to go then.

Some of you who retired early may agree with me. Others may have felt pushed out, and would rather have carried on a bit longer. Or of course you may be thinking, “Well, bully for you. I wish I could afford to retire at 60”. I understand that going to work is a necessity for most people. To be paid (and even respected) for what you do at your place of work is great… but it is not the whole story and you should not be regarded as useless, lazy or selfish if you are not out there adding to the GNP for your entire adult life.

As it is, I am working almost as hard as I did before, but I haven’t earned a penny. I do what I want to do, when I want to do it. I’ve been able to become a publisher, manage a research project, give talks and write this blog. I see my friends and my parents more often. I play the guitar, read more books, go to more museums and do more thinking. If the weather is good I can go on a day trip, or just walk round the park. And there’s still not nearly enough time to do all the things I’d like to do. If I don’t do these things now, when am I going to do them? I am nearly 64; how many good years do I have left?

Even so, I would have been prepared to work fewer hours for another couple of years – if that option had been offered to me. Maybe you, and your employers, can make do with just four days a week of your valuable time. But if not, enjoy your life, make more of an effort to get out and see old friends, pick up that guitar or watercolours or whatever it is you’ve pushed to one side, and don’t leave it too long to find your voice. It’s 2019 – and probably later than you think.

Ageing Rocker

I’d had enough of working for a living so I moved back to Oxford to be with my girlfriend. I joined Bernard’s band, together with my old schoolmate Andrew and our fellow housemate Wiff and a young drummer from New College called Paul. Then we added a female singer, a posh-sounding blonde called Jo, with a wonderful soprano voice. One For The Wall practised three of Bern’s songs and entered the Melody Maker Folk/Rock Contest in Oxford. Every other act was a parody of the Sex Pistols. We did not excel. The sound system was so basic, with no monitors, that I wrote to complain and we got a re-run at London’s City Polytechnic. (Jo later told me that one of the judges was Howard Goodall.) And we won! I remember driving back that night in Andy’s Mini up the M40 in the fog. It’s always a great feeling to win something.

Those silly love song lines have filled my head and turned my mind

One For The Wall progressed to the Melody Maker final in July at the Marquee Club. It was a filthy, sweaty dive in Wardour Street… but a legendary and iconic dive. The competition was won by Splodgenessabounds, who presently had a Top Ten hit with the epoch-defining “Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please”. Bern’s finely crafted, dramatic songs never stood much chance. But then again, maybe we just weren’t much good. Nevertheless, for the first and only time in my life, I briefly considered a career as a professional musician. Why not? It wasn’t that I had anything else to do, apart from chugging away at my thesis. And though I couldn’t read music or even play an instrument very well, the required standard didn’t seem to be very high. But I didn’t take that route after all. I went back to my boring thesis.

I have been rambling on about 1979. It’s now 40 years since we first got together and the band is still going (though we did take a 33-year break). Three members are now grandparents. Andy lives in Exeter, Jo and I are (by chance) near each other in south London and Bern’s still in Oxford. Life has certainly changed. So why bother driving hundreds of miles every month or so to spend two days cooped up in a studio?

The music is the obvious reason – Bernard has not lost his touch as a composer – and even though I am never going to find fame or fortune as a musician it is still a lot of fun. But for me, at any rate, it is as much about being part of a team. There is something special about that, and now I’ve “retired” it is something I would very much miss. Maybe other people are happy to be always working on their own. I can do that too, but the team ethos is something different. Here’s a studio rehearsal of “Planet of Our Dreams”. Jo: vocal; Bernard: piano and vocal; Andrew: bass; Colin: guitar.

The Microclimate of Staffordshire

Thursday afternoons at Birkenhead School were for playing at soldiers. Everyone was more or less obliged to join the Combined Cadet Force. We were fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, to have a genuine, high-ranking ex-soldier as our CO: Lt. Col. Arthur N. Green (AKA The Ang).

Dad’s Army was one of the most popular programmes at the time. Walking to and from school dressed like a squaddie, when you clearly weren’t one, was almost as embarrassing as wearing a school cap the rest of the week. There were compensations: we got the opportunity to handle and fire weapons. There was an indoor rifle range across the road at the Chetwynd TA Centre, where we were taught one end of a Lee-Enfield from the other by Sergeant Major McLaughlin, known to all as “Fang” for his distinctive dentition. “Strip a rifle? You lot couldn’t strip a woman!” A little harsh on 16-year-olds… while demonstrating a rather old-fashioned attitude to the fair sex.

Every year there was a CCF summer camp. You had to give up a week of your holidays. I was under no illusions that it would be enjoyable. But if you got certain activities out of the way, you wouldn’t have to do them in term-time; plus, you got privileges in the Cadre – most obviously, a red beret and a uniform that almost fitted. If you had a girlfriend, real or imaginary, who might see you on your way home, such things had a value.

So it was off by coach to Blackshaw Moor (near Leek). It was late June, but you could have fooled me. It seemed like a godforsaken place at any season of the year. There were 30 of us, enough to make up two platoons and occupy two huts. There was no-one in my hut in whose company I would have chosen to spend longer than five minutes. There was blanket-boxing, Blanco and Brasso, square-bashing and PT, rifle-stripping and machine-gun practice, and field-craft and orienteering. 

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

One of the more demanding tasks we were set was a “night op”. This necessitated crawling across a field by moonlight, and labouring uphill through a wood to a hurricane lamp where two “NCOs” would be waiting. They were to give each of us upon our arrival (theoretically in pairs) a scrap of paper. These fragments, when assembled, were supposed to form a map or password… or something like that, I forget the details. We were taken to recce the site in the afternoon; the field was generously carpeted with cowpats, which I looked forward to leopard-crawling through in the dark. 

As night fell we returned to the field of action in two Bedford three-tonners. I began crawling through the cowpats, then ghost-walked successfully to the hurricane lamp in the wood. Not too bad; now for the return leg. Having lost my other half, I worked out a laborious way of returning via the dry-stone walls and fences of the field boundaries. It would take ages, but at least I’d eventually be heading in the right direction. I was cold, despite my long-johns, and it was starting to rain. I gave up trying to move stealthily; it took far too long. The “officers” tossed thunder-flashes at us to simulate artillery bombardment; it was genuinely scary.

Predictable, the exercise soon degenerated into a shambles. Some lads lost their sense of direction and headed away from the target, rather than towards it. When I eventually made it back to the Bedford I was surprised to see that I was only the fifth or sixth from our platoon to complete the task. Come midnight, whistles and flares signalled the end of the farce. Boys emerged from the gloom, limping. One had a broken arm, another a sprained ankle, others cuts to their heads, like extras from The Longest Day. Those of us who didn’t have to make a visit to North Staffs Royal Infirmary got a mug of cocoa and a lie-in. 

* * *

Two years passed… My mate Paul and I had read in the NME about the inaugural Buxton Rock Festival, which had hosted Steppenwolf, Wishbone Ash, Vinegar Joe and Family. Curved Air were also on the bill – but Sonja Kristina didn’t fancy singing in the freezing cold at 3am. Buxton was the North’s premier festival (in fact, it was the only one north of Reading). We decided to go to the second festival, so one Saturday morning in July 1973, together with Ray who worked at NatWest and owned an MG 1300, we set off full of enthusiasm.

What genius had decided to hold an open-air event in the area with the highest rainfall in England? We should have known what to expect from that CCF summer camp (as the two sites were only about 15 miles apart). The moorland site was exposed and cold, and it began to rain as soon as we got there. I remember seeing Canned Heat (we should have brought some), Edgar Broughton, Medicine Head and Alex Harvey, who gave a stirring rendition of “Saint Anthony”. 

Oh the temptations, oh the sensations

One band I was looking forward to seeing was the Groundhogs – but they refused to perform, as did Roy Wood. The entire audience, and some of the acts, were intimidated by a gang of Hell’s Angels who wandered about demanding money with menaces. Chuck Berry was headlining; we caught glimpses of him through the polythene sheet under which we were all huddling.

We spent almost as long trying to free the car from the mud as we did watching the bands. John Peel, MC on the day, wrote later that campaign medals should have been struck. We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.