Ah, sunset, dusk, twilight, with its myriad colours — blazing reddish orange, morphing into hues of pink and purple and turquoise — when the shadows lengthen and merge with the darkness, when we seek the solace of the night and cease our toiling.

Yet this is the least favourite part of my day. And why, you ask? Because I am in the twilight of my years and, like a meteorite burning out, I will soon limp across the sky before disappearing into oblivion. So why should I greet the night with rapture and expectation when it merely accentuates my demise?

In this twilight phase I look expectantly towards the dawning of the day. Yes, for its glow, its shimmering radiance, banishing Nyx and welcoming Helios with eager anticipation because he will bring light and laughter, and make the day stretch from morn to night before he rides his chariot across the heavens to sink into the nether world.

But, is this the favourite part of my day? Nay — purely a prelude to the dawning of the light, to greeting not merely the morning, but more importantly greeting my grandson, who’ll awaken and with sleep-laden eyes, stumble into my bedroom and up into my bed and say, ‘I love you, Granddad,’… and my world will be complete.

I am more fortunate than many others because I have so many favourite parts to my day, each time I hear those four beautiful words from my grandson. And it is not a time of day, it is not a notion of time at all. It is a glorious eternity whenever I hear his tender words, and I am prompted to join with Omar Khayyam in saying, ‘Fill the cup that clears/ today of past regrets and future fears/ Tomorrow? —Why, tomorrow I may be/ myself with yesterday’s seven thousand years’.