ABSTRACT
On receiving the editors’ invitation to explain why I think as I do about the past, I felt greatly honoured to be included in a party of confessional historians; but my immediate instinct was to decline. Then Sheila (my wife) reminded me that I had for some time been threatening to write my own obituary, and hinted that this could provide a rehearsal. So in the end, I found the invitation to what I fear may be little more than self-indulgence irresistible, and here I am – a voyeuristic guest at my own funeral, trying to make sense of my life, to find some thread or draw some threads together to lead me to where I momentarily am.
