My wife has been commenting more and more lately on what she claims is my incredible shrinking self. She is not talking about some dramatic shift in weight, rather, the loss of muscle in my upper and lower body. It is not hard, as I point out to her, to find the culprit. Gammy shoulders prevent me from any kind of serious swimming, and tendinosis has sabotaged my regime of walking. Both are stubborn and are likely to be around for a while, perhaps forever.

Meanwhile I gaze with some envy at folks ploughing through laps, while others jog and stride past me. When I say stride, I mean moving at a normal walking pace, for the short ambles I am permitted are at a glacial speed. I may be the slowest man in the world at present. Such is the price of a life of sportiness.

Today is the last official day of summer, which I realise if quite arbitrary, but already two are my backyard trees are on the turn. I love the fall of leaves, for though they may clog the gutters and presage the arrival of noisy leaf-blowers, it is a season of gentleness,

"Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,"

as Keats noted.

Yes, I look forward to its 'mellow fruitfulness.' and much else besides.