Here I am, two hours into my 65th year, farting, belching, dribbling and ... where was I? Ah yes, wheezing. You might say: "What do you expect if you continue to smoke 65 cigarettes a day?" I won't mind if you do; it's a conversation I have each day with myself. I hate being this old, this debilitated and it's a sad truth that I'm a great deal nastier than I was ... oh, a year ago.

The doorbell rang this evening, but neither Vic nor I could be bothered to answer it as we assumed it was burglars. We later ran into Harold and Antonia in the restaurant and Harold told us he's got cancer of the oesophagus. First Ian, now Harold. At least Harold's still alive. It wasn't meant to be this way: it was always our assumption that I'd die first. I almost made it a few years back when my liver collapsed under the effects of years of hard drinking. But I came back from the dead and ... well, I'm still here.

The only writer who ever made a real difference to me was Hank Janson. In the early 1950s he wrote what would now be called erotic thrillers. My brother Nigel and I kept a goodly selection, though I suspect I was rather more fervid in my enthusiasm for the Janson oeuvre. Mummy was careful to leave me to him: but then our family was always careful to leave distances between each other. It was Granny who told me that Mummy had flown home to London to be with Father, leaving us boys to see out the war in Canada. I wonder if she knew about Father's affairs?

It's raining here in Barbados. I watch a woman prepare a lounger for her husband, who clearly suffers from Alzheimer's. Vic and I met them this evening. It turns out the old man doesn't have Alzheimer's. Strange. I preferred him when I thought he did.

My mother died of cancer when she was 58. Before she died, she told me: "Si, I've learned my lesson. I'm never going to have another cigarette." Father never learnt his. He died in the same ward, pining for a cigarette. I've just been told I've got prostate cancer. That squares the circle with Ian and Harold. "We're not going to treat you," the doctor said. "There's so much wrong with you, something else will kill you before the prostate." I'm not sure whether to be worried or reassured. I'll have a cigarette and think about it.

I love the Italian coast, but this trip brings back painful memories. When I had money and was successful, I lived like a king. Now I'm in the Hotel Metropole. What happened to my prosperous self? It vanished, I suppose, with some help from me. What little I hadn't spent, I invested in Lloyd's.

I've tried explaining to Vic that I'm ill, possibly very ill. She nods and continues packing. I look through an old photograph album. I recognise the pictures of Nigel, Piers and Mummy. But I look at myself and think: who is this?

The digested read ... digested

Postcards from the last gasp saloon