Can it really be a quarter of a century since Bobby Moore and I stood on the nostalgic steps of the Royal Garden Hotel and said our goodbyes?
Twenty-five years since he walked away, still upright with that blond head high, despite the cancer which would take his life 62 hours later?
He had chosen the venue for our last lunch. This place in Kensington where he and his England team-mates had wined and dined in celebration of this country's only winning of the World Cup.
Not that he could eat much now.