I took off a sock the other evening, the back of it had completely worn through. I tossed it in the bin, its days of covering my feet were over. Then I had a thought, nostalgia cutting in, what memories could this sock tell? How many thousands of miles has it covered? What adventures did it accompany me on? Did it ever visit the States? Did it get stuck up a mountain on the verge of death? How many dog walks? Was it there on my wedding day, or the day my divorce came through? Had it travelled to the Canary Islands, Weymouth or just the local pub?

It’s surprising how such trivial items can trigger memories. I look around me, many of my friends are now in the winter of their lives, I’m still thankfully I think in the autumn of mine. My target age is eighty-three, that gives me thirty years. Four of which I’m still working, okay, only part time thankfully, plus it keeps me out of trouble and I enjoy it. I don’t think I’m going for any more major life changes. I’m fairly content and now accelerating rapidly towards death. Do I want another relationship? I don’t honestly think so. I’ve been there and done that. I think I’m now very much destined to be single, but I can live with that. I don’t have enough wardrobe space to spare for a start. I need to do a bit more travelling, but apart from that I think I’m pretty much done.

I’ve lived a life that’s full, I travelled each and every highway, and more, much more than this, I did it my way.

As for that sock, it will go in the recycling, maybe it’s only on the beginning of a new journey.