I am not young. This is a strange thing. I surprise the mirror, remind myself, I am not young. But I am not convinced. I am young, I say to myself. I argue without saying anything. And then I see someone my age wearing something I might have worn twenty years ago and I think No. I would not wear that now. And I know, then. I am almost persuaded. I walk quickly alongside a young woman and I forget again. I see a woman in the shop window: all that time, germinating. It’s a puzzle. That boy there, leaning against the train door. I would have fancied him, I think, just after I think how nice he looks, how I very nearly fancy him now. I should tie a string around my finger. I forget so much.