I’m going for a walk.

I don’t think I’ll die today, but in advance of whenever, I’d like to post my last words. These should be considered my last words on earth, regardless of any actual final utterance.

My last words on earth will be “Guys? I’m going for a walk.” Then I’ll go for a walk, and I won’t come back. I’ll follow Kenneth Grahame’s old route along the Thames, and I’ll pass by Rat’s house and stop for a bite. I’ll follow the Sea Rat to the sun and the south, and still I’ll keep walking till I’ve trod every path. I’ll favour the green ways, the riverside trails, but I’ll walk the cities as well, and the hills, and the deserts. I’ll walk the Antarctic and slide down the floes. You might pass my ghost in the woods or the mall. You won’t know, but I will, and I’ll wave hi and bye.

I used to walk in the bluebell woods near Cambuslang. I walked from Prestwick to Troon, and back again. One time I got lost and walked from Fonthill to Grimsby. I took a roundabout route, about fifty miles. On my way, I passed a graveyard, old and overgrown. No-one in that graveyard had lived more than twenty years.

I’d like to walk through lemon groves when the fruit’s ripe for harvest. Maybe in Sicily, or Algeria to the south. I’d like a dog to walk with me, or a succession of dogs—a dog for each road, to show me the way. I get lost on my own; we’ve established that. I’ve always got lost, even when I was small. I got lost when I was three, but I don’t think anyone noticed. I wandered all day, but I came home for dinner. I will need a dog, or dogs, on my walk.

I think best on my feet, with the sun on my face.

Don’t forget, guys. I’m going for a walk.