Happiness was an elusive pursuit in which he invested negligible energy. At certain milestones of age as a number and ageing as a process he was prone, as so many are, to take stock of his achievements or lack thereof. At any given time he usually found himself to be ahead of where he had been when last he conducted this inventory of actualisation but he denied himself the feeling of responsibility for his progress. Though it was always true that time had passed and work had been done it likewise always seemed that any forward progress was the doing of benevolent forces pulling strings behind the scenes to push the narrative – his own story – ever forward. Their motivations for doing this were dubious and self-serving but they did drive the plot, as it were. He was continuously afraid that he was doomed to be forever a spectator if he did not pick up the pen and author the next chapter himself.