Friday August 12, 2005
“Sixty-six isn’t so old is it, really?” I asked as Graham finished singing Happy Birthday down the phone to me first thing this morning. I confess it, I was fishing for reassurance. Not for a compliment. I know better than that.
“It’s as old as you make it,” he said.
You can’t say fairer than that, can you?
It was a busy-ish kind of day. Taking my neighbour—the one who’s had two strokes recently—to the doctor for his monthly check-up. Cleaning house. Showing a new viewer round. Lunch—salad and quiche. Nap—extended, probably down to the residuals of yesterday’s colly-wobbles. Then, a late trip to Tesco’s to bring in provisions for the weekend.
The viewer was a waste of time. Some daft old lady who, I suspect, goes around looking at houses to fill her empty hours. You never know, though, so I treated her as if she were neither daft nor old. Apparently her daughter may come to look next week ‘some time’. Well, good, but I don’t do ‘some time’, and so I asked her to make an appointment through the agent in the normal way.
Oh, I forgot, waiting for the postman to deliver my silly pressie. The proper one will come when we’re teamed up again, so I’m told. I said that I’ve had quite enough proper presents, thank you very much, what with a new car, a new piano and new spectacles all following on one another in short order.
“No,” he said, “those were necessaries. You need something special for your birthday.”
“If you say so,” I said, not protesting too much.
And now, in the evening, just about to tuck in to a shameless dinner—chicken chasseur, roast potatoes, green vegetables, followed by a good helping of sherry trifle—and wading into my celebratory half-bottle of Moet, I raise my glass to you all. Thanks, as always, for reading, and may your day be as happy as mine. They don’t call it the Glorious Twelfth for nothing.