As a man gets older, his sex instincts travel from his middle to his head. What he wanted to do in his younger days but did not because of nervousness, lack of response or opportunity, he does in his mind.
I started writing this novel when I was eighty-three. I finished it at eighty-five. An equally apt title for it could be: ‘The Fantasies of an Octogenarian.’
No characters in this exposé are real: they are figments of my senile fantasies.