It’s always the hands, isn’t it? They’re the give-away. You can always do something with other parts but there’s little you can do with your hands except, maybe, wear gloves. Except that I don’t do anything. My idea has always been to grow old gracefully or, rather, just grow old.

So, the lines on my face multiply and grow deeper and longer; my belly hides more of what’s beneath it; my bones click and creak, stiffen and have pain for no reason (and although many Italians and older Brits would blame the weather or the change of weather, I don’t for I know it’s not that, it’s just a time thing – and, by that, I mean the passage of time); my throat has developed what I can only liken to the wattle of a chicken and, finally, I have small areas on the backs of each hand that are slightly darker, like freckles but are, of course, liver spots.

They, like when the skin on the backs of your hands becomes thin and almost translucent, are signs of extreme old age. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve always thought.

And, I’ve noticed here, on the beach, that they seem to be multiplying at an extraordinary rate – even in the last few days.

I guess it could be the sun. Or the smoking. Or both. Or, just old age although I had always thought that liver spots were something reserved for those who had passed retirement time – some time before their appearance.

It seems not. Or, at least, not for me!

It’s not that they look so bad – just that they exist at all! And, instead of fading against the tan I am getting, they seem to look worse!

Anyway, I’ve finished The Bat. It was OK. I suspect that Lola quite fancies the author, whose picture was on the cover. Today, I’ve started The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. This is a thick book. Let’s see how long this keeps me going!