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I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life; it’s a safe bet I’ll make more before I’m done. Hopefully plenty of time to make plenty more doo-doos. But as my biological odometer clocks up another year – I turned 63 yesterday – and I anticipate, warily, the scrapheap, my thoughts turn less to celebration than to chagrin. I think of all the people I’ve let down, over the years, people who had the right to expect better of me. I’m reminded of those I have hurt, seldom deliberately I’d like to think, but all too often out of hubris, or pride, or selfishness; out of a truly world-class ability to delude myself. I think of the many, many times I’ve behaved like an asshole. Frankly, I’m embarrassed. And I am sorry, really sorry, for all I’ve done wrong in the world (if you are reading this, and recognize who you are, if you are one of those I have injured or let down or offended, I hope you will forgive me). I realise one doesn’t

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