It struck me much later that the fuss Victor created around my promise of whisky at half-past four and his senile anger were nothing but an ungovernable fear of finding himself inadequate, of being too tired or indisposed or simply not good enough. I don’t want to. They’ve no right to demand it. I never wanted the part. I was deceived, persuaded. Not again, not the terror, the inadequacy, not all that again. I’ve refused once and for all, I don’t want to any more. I don’t have to, no one can make me. I’m old and tired. It’s all meaningless. Why this torment? To hell with you all, I want to be alone. I’ve done my bit. It’s ruthless to bully a sick man. I won’t be able to cope, not again, to hell with your damned filming. And yet. I’ll go and try. They’ve no one to blame but themselves. It won’t be good, it can’t be good. I’ll go on and put in an appearance to show them I can’t any longer, haven’t the energy. I’ll show that damned snotty little pup that you can’t treat sick old people any old how. He will have definite confirmation of my inability which, in his opinion, I demonstrated on the very first day.

Perhaps that was what he was thinking, the histrionic old fellow. I did not understand the content of his rage until now, when I find myself in almost exactly the same predicament. All lighthearted games are irretrievably at an end and boredom stares me in the face. Fear of inability attacks and sabotages ability. In the past, I flew unhindered and lifted others. Now I need others’ credence and appetite, others will have to lift me for me to wish to fly.