It's been one of those weeks. It started well enough and I was going to write a blog post about a very enjoyable pub crawl along some of the historic riverside inns that lie east of the Tower Bridge, including the Mayflower in Rotherhithe and the Prospect of Whitby in Wapping.
I would have probably included these photos:
I might also have mentioned the Prospect of Whitby's literary and artistic associations - Pepys, Turner, Dickens, Whistler and Daniel Farson - along with an incident there in 1996 that wasn't my finest hour.
But the week unravelled and by Wednesday, it felt as if several months had gone by. Perhaps I'll write about it one day.
In the meantime, some readers may remember this clipping from a couple of years ago, featuring the most 'mature' 13-year-old I've ever seen:
I've reposted it because I have a strong feeling that D. Greaves of Middleton is also featured on the cover of this book, which I found last week:
I'll zoom in further...
It's him, isn't it? The attire may be less formal, but he still looks 43.
I wonder what happened to D. Greaves? I tried finding him on Google, but the word 'model' yielded some results that had very little to do with the radio-controlled boat world. It didn't help that he came from a place called Middleton either.
It will probably remain a mystery.
I wish that I could be one of those people who play with radio-controlled boats at the weekend. Perhaps I'd belong to a local club and talk to fellow enthusiasts and every December we'd have our annual Christmas dinner, during which guest speakers would regale us with amusing anecdotes of exploding boats, lost signals and aggressive swans.
I'd sleep soundly at night. I wouldn't worry about my son and I wouldn't give a second thought to Iran's uranium enrichment programme, the continuing economic crisis or any of the other things that flitter through my mind at four o'clock in the morning.
But my mind has already raced ahead to the broken marriage caused by an excessive devotion to radio-controlled boats, the unsatisfactory friendship with Vic Smeed and the loneliness of the annual Christmas dinner.
Perhaps I'll buy a dog instead.