This bridge wasn’t there last time I came here. Once you get a bit old, seems like you slow down a bit. Everything around you moves a bit faster. But somehow, this makes you able to concentrate a bit more on things you like. I think the word young people use for old people like that is ‘fussy’. I say we’re just focused.

These days, I’m concentrating on coffee. For the last many years, I’ve tried out different coffees, and I’ve been trying to find the perfect blend for me. For a while, it seemed I’d come close to the perfect blend, but then the plantation that made it shut down. Took me a while to find the next one. But I have time, even if nobody else does.

So I cross this bridge, which is now old and rusty, and I reach this place I hadn’t seen for a while. The owner tells me his great-grandfather started the company. I resist the urge to tell him about my involvement. After chit-chat and a little tour (oh, how the plantation’s grown, and all that melancholy bullshit), he offers me the coffee I asked for, the coffee they’ve been developing in a small greenhouse that isn’t part of their commercial enterprise.

It’s not quite right yet, but it’s getting close, oh so beautifully close. I congratulate the owner on his efforts and leave my name and a certain amount of money. The money is to continue development, and the name is so that his grandchildren recognise me.