Talking to myself

I needed to walk and clear my head this morning, and think. Trouble is, when I think my lips move. Which is fine most of the time until I forget I'm doing it or someone pops up unexpectedly from around a corner. Then I have three choices:
I can turn it into a song but with my voice that's a little scary;
I can pretend I'm talking to George, which is acceptable in this country - unless he's 100 metres ahead of me;
I can stop, look embarrassed and rush on.
Actually there's another option: carry on and pretend it's perfectly normal. And I don't know why it's not. It's not as if I'm having a conversation with an imaginary friend. At least, not all the time.


Anyway, I took George on the less muddy main cycle path to see how far we could get (just past Dunvant rugby club if you're interested). It's a route I used to take a lot but haven't done for some time. When I did we regularly saw an old gentleman. Lean and tall with a flat cap and a walking stick, he reminded me of the farmer from Babe. He always used to keep his eyes on the road and not acknowledge anyone, leading me to the conclusion that he was recently widowed. Today he smiled and said good morning and that, I think, confirms my theory and that time is a great healer.