Will Hughes, my old friend and partner from Reading, spent a few days in Zagreb. His job accomplished, yesterday we met for dinner and drinks. Early this morning he returned home. Having discussed all sorts of “serious” things, we turned to more esoteric subjects. “What are your retirement plans?” I asked out of the blue. This year he will turn fifty-five, when I decided to retire for good. Although we talked about his retirement a few years back, during one of his visits to Motovun, he was taken aback. “Well,” he fumbled for words, “no plans of retirement…” A moment later he turned to his job at the University of Reading. “I love what I am doing,” he said, “and there is no such thing as retirement age any longer.” I reminded him of his interest in writing, which we talked about a short while earlier, but he felt that writing could always be a hobby of sorts. “As I learned from you,” he grinned, “that is the best way to go in this world of ours.” Indeed, I have long argued that writers and artists should never go “professional” so as to remain secure in their hobbies. And that was that. The subject was exhausted, apparently for all times. I only wonder why I still feel somewhat sorry for Will. He cannot even imagine the pleasures of retirement, I guess. I must have failed to impress them upon him with sufficient conviction.