The days of our years [are] threescore years and ten [ish]; and if by reason of strength [they be] fourscore years, yet [is] their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
Psalm 90 v.10
Better get on with living then.
Tomorrow evening, here. Because the earth has gone round the sun 33 times since I was delivered unto it. Or something. I'm old anyway. I grow old I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled*. Yes I know it's a Wetherspoons. You try and think of somewhere reasonably central that won't be heaving on a Friday night.
Eightish, flight from St Helier etc permitting. NB that text messaging me doesn't work, calls only.
* Oh Lord. "And indeed there will be time/ To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”/ Time to turn back and descend the stair,/ With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-/ [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]". Sad but so true.
Bah Humbug.
That is all.
9th October, being the Saturday closest to my birthday, I shall be getting drunk in the Pembroke in Primrose Hill.If you want to come and see me being morose do, if you don't, don't.
Dies ipse...
I have nothing more to say. Saturday seemed to go well. I think and hope everyone had as much fun as I did (except that I know Alan's kidney stone kicked in, which I understand is the worst pain a man ever can know). I may not have accumulated any money over the last 30 years, but I have a fine crop of friends, which is rather more important. Though both would be even better.
Overslept this morning: paying the debt to the weekend I guess. Still, if you can't be late on your birthday, when can you?
The librarians of my Inn have clubbed together and bought me a bottle of whisky for my birthday. I'm really touched actually. This is what happens if you waste enough time in flirting and asking stupid questions.