In the ongoing dialogue between the Me that I am today and versions of my earlier self, one outstanding feeling is of embarrassment.  How could I have worn that dress, for goodness sake?  Why on earth would I say that? Did anyone hear me, or worse, remember it? Does anyone have a photo of that disaster of a night out and which is going to appear on social media at any moment? Yet I sympathise, empathise, with these junior versions. They have melded into who I am.

Sometimes you read letters, or articles made to read like letters, from people giving advice to their younger self.  Great advice. Sensible. It’s always to a person of fixed age, usually just starting out on independent living.  The tone is kind, wise and reassuring. I can’t do that. I’ve been embarrassing myself since I was born, so Previous Versions skip between ages, each with its capacity to compromise dignity. Anyway, I wouldn’t have listened to good advice (thereby avoiding social calamity) at any age. Social calamity seems to be my default.