Julian Bream, the international classical guitarist has died at the age of 87 years. His obituary ( BBC dot co dot uk website) has a wonderful end-of-life story from him.

After being knocked over by a dog, he broke both hips and his left hand. It stopped him playing the guitar. He said of it. “There is nothing sad about not playing anymore. The thing I feel a little annoyed about is that I know I’m a better musician than I was at 70, but I can’t prove it.”

What an inspiration for those of us who didn’t take much interest in playing music until late in life. By-the-way, I’m still struggling with the saxophone, but I will persist in the hope it slowly comes to me.

I was on my own all day yesterday. Liz has gone to Scotland with her daughter for a few days to, in part, search for her ancestors. She sent me a picture of herself stood by her grandfather’s gravestone. I got lots of loose ends cleared up, mostly domestic. I had arranged to meet up with friends in the pub later in the evening. I was going to go there on my bicycle, about a 20 minute peddle I estimate. As I was locking up, the rain came lashing down. I don’t mind getting soaked through coming home, that’s easily dealt with. Getting soaked going out is awful, the night is ruined. I rang Ned and cried off. I then wandered about the house for a while and discovered a storage tin in a drawer. A biscuit tin in its former life. When I opened it, it contained a collection of medicine packs but devoid of there original contents. Why they were stored, I can’t recall, it was over 2 years ago. I think they were the palliative meds. I got a little lachrymose then as the memories seeped back into my mind. It has been several months since that last happened. The smallest things can cause a winding blow to our existence.