End of the pretence

I may have fooled you, and from time to time, I may even have fooled myself. But sadly, the truth has come up with a pot of hot wax, poured it over my head and ripped it off without any regard for my desire to remain hairy of scalp. I have, I'm afraid, received yet more conclusive evidence that I am Officially Old. A few weeks ago, someone I respect told me quite firmly that I should read The End of the Affair by Graham Greene. Eager to please, I purchased a minty-green Penguin classic copy and began to plough through the pages. I found it exceptionally well-written and easy to read, melancholy and atmospheric and, overall, it is fair to say that I was thoroughly enjoying the experience (as much as is possible with such a profoundly depressing story). Around half way into the novel, I had a very feint sense that I may have seen a film of the book. A particular scene seemed slightly familiar, but I was certain that the pages either side were virgin territory, so I moved on quickly and thought no more of it.

Until a couple of days ago, that is, when I was lying on my sofa, feeling sorry for myself and staring absent-mindedly at the opposite wall, and my eyes alighted upon a particular book on my shelf. Immediately, I flushed with shame as I knew precisely what it was: my original Vintage Classic copy of The End of the Affair. Gingerly, I stood up, crossed the room and easily opened the slightly dog-eared cover. Tragically, there was no denying that it had been read, and by me - looking at some of the sentences and phrases I'd underlined, I was clearly in my Obsessed With Jonathan Coe's What A Carve Up! phase, which was around the time I was finishing at university. Yes, less than a decade ago, I'd read the book. Properly, from cover to cover. I'd made notes. I'd appreciated it. And then I had, almost entirely, forgotten it.

What was particularly curious for me was that there were two passages that I had highlighted as being particularly resonant in both copies. So from the late nineties to the late noughties, between my early twenties and my early thirties, the things that strike me as cool haven't changed much. I don't know if that's reassuring or depressing.

Either way, I have achieved a new milestone: I have read and digested an entire book without realising I had read it before. I am old. My memory sucks. But hey, on the upside, I don't need to buy any more reading matter - I can just start again on the stuff I've already got. It's greener and it'll save me money. Every penny counts and all that. Sigh.