This may well be my final contribution to this blog. I’m out of hospital now, and back in Stockholm; albeit still feeling a bit groggy, and – in particular – confused by the changes that have been made to this site since I started on it. It used to be pretty simple and straightforward, well suited to elderly farts like me; but has become more complicated recently, its clever young managers offering services I don’t want, which clog up the whole procedure. It has taken me an hour this morning, for example, to get to this point.

Of course scarcely anyone (apart from you!) reads my blog; but that was never its main purpose. I saw it as simply way of getting things off my own chest, and indulging my emotional need to continue writing, which I’ve been privileged to be able to indulge for more than half a century now. It was a kind of literary masturbation, if you like; an indelicate metaphor, yes, but an apt one.

I may instead embark on another book, in order to enable the literary juices (ugh!) to continue flowing, and a little more potently. One idea I’ve had is an openly subjective history of the past eighty-five years: ‘My Life and Times’ if you will; but with the emphasis very much on the ‘Times’. That will mean that I don’t need to do much research, which is always exhausting, in my sixty-odd-years’ experience. And it might satisfy those kind readers who have suggested that I turn to autobiography – the very idea of which repels a modest guy like me. (Or was it immodest to write that?)

Or I may return to this blog. We’ll see.