It happened in Montreal, when I was about seven years old, I'd think—so let's say Montreal 1943, either spring or fall, because I was wearing the appropriate clothes for weather that was neither hot nor cold: short grey trousers, fresh new shirt, short socks and light shoes, shoes I could run and jump in, shoes I could climb trees in, nevertheless proper and respectable shoes. But what was I doing, out and about in Montreal respectably dressed, on my own? Unless it was a Sunday, and I wasn't where I was meant to be, which would have been Sunday school, though I may have been on my way there, or on my way back. It was very unusual to be without my brother Nigel on an official occasion, such as Sunday school. Our grandparents who, with our Aunt Gert, were looking after us for the duration of the war, tended to send us about as a pair, presumably on the understanding, entirely mistaken, that we would look after each other. We are far more protective of each other, now that we are elderly, than we ever were as children. Anyway, I clearly remember being without Nigel and on my own and dressed as I've described above, on a sunny afternoon in Montreal, climbing the highest tree, a fir tree, in our neighbourhood. It was in a small park, more a scrap of common land, with the back yards of houses around it, and a path into it from Vendome Avenue, where we lived—No. 4047, Vendome Avenue. I don't remember any other tree there, only this giant. The intention of climbing it had grown out of my intense love of Batman's sidekick, Robin, the Boy Wonder, who was often perched on a high place, from which he would leap, with the assistance of ropes and small machines, pulleys and so forth, concealed about his person—but where about his person? He was covered from neck to toe by his Boy Wonder costume, it was a sort of body stocking and tight briefs, on his feet ankle-length bootees, and the cape and mask of course, where could he possibly have kept his ropes and pulleys? Unless they sprang out of his belt, which, now I think about it, was rather thick and possibly contained Batman-designed devices—but that's not the point, the point is the image I had of myself as the Boy Wonder, scaling high, and posing there before rising even higher and then descending rapidly on to the back of a gangster, or mobster, or mad genius—then POW! WHAM! So forth.

It’s a heavenly day. Warm, with the mildest of breezes, the sea calm and the surrounding mountains visible, with the distinct hint, like large thoughts not yet thought, of mountains beyond them, and beyond. I’m sitting at the table, as has become my habit, with my back resting against the chapel wall. In front of me are the tables and chairs of the restaurant, and then the esplanade and the steps down to the beach. It’s the sort of day that helps people to be friends, almost everyone who passes by me nods or smiles, some say a few words, the routine words – ‘Isn’t it lovely here!’ and ‘What a beautiful day,’ or more personally, ‘You look comfortable there in the shade.’ An elderly Scotsman with a verra thick accent has just loitered to discuss the charms of the hotel, it’s his first time in Greece, usually he goes to Portugal ‘and such’, he tries to learn the language of the country he holidays in, but he’s finding Greek ‘verra, verra difficult’ – he’s been here a week, going back on Tuesday, so he doubts that he’ll master it on this visit, at least – Well, it was a nice conversation, cheerful and easy. Then he was down to the beach and a few minutes later up again with a stately, heavy-treading silver-haired wife, who continued on her way while he paused to tell me to send him a cheque, a blank cheque, any sort of cheque would do as long as it was blank. I laughed and nodded, but couldn’t think what to say because I didn’t understand the joke, if it was a joke. Yes, it was a joke, his countenance and the tone of his voice announced it as such, but what was its point? I’m going to go for a swim, why not?