Sixty

I am sixty.

Sixty.

It is my birthday, and I have had lots and lots of them, so many that I can now seriously count myself as an old person. That is to say, I remember my grandmother being sixty, and she was definitely old. Really, really old, much older than me. She had grey hair and was getting a bit crumbly, and just wanted to sit in the garden when she wasn’t worrying about the dusting.

Perish the thought.

I have not dusted a single thing today, since it is my birthday. I am not exactly sure what I have done, since I am now completely intoxicated and the day seems to have receded into a faintly distant memory, but there was no dusting.

My grandmother used to drink advocaat. I thought this was disgusting as a child, and would probably hold the same opinion even now, somebody once described it as being like drinking the contents of one’s handkerchief, so I am pleased to say that some things are not an inevitable consequence of age. I am drunk because of the second bottle of wine in the Indian restaurant. This was considerably nicer wine than usual, because of it being my birthday, and we had two bottles, for the same reason. I will regret this tomorrow, but that is tomorrow’s problem.

I was supposed to be spending today getting ready for tomorrow’s picnic. I have completely and entirely failed to achieve this and will have to get up early in consequence. This does not matter because Elspeth has agreed to look after the dogs and so we do not have to detour via Manchester, which would have meant getting up even earlier. I do not know how we are going to manage tomorrow, and do not care at this moment. I will set an alarm, and worry about it all when it goes off. Today is my birthday and nothing is my problem. I am supremely indifferent to the troubles of the world.

It is also the middle day of the year, did you know that?

We are now halfway to next January. I have barely got used to writing 2025 on things and it is almost finished already, where on earth that went I have got no idea.

Instead of diligently preparing a picnic I have painted the new doorbell. This is not a doorbell in any familiar sense of the word, but a huge, clanging ship’s bell. considerably bigger than a man’s head, which is now hanging on a long chain beside the front door. If you ring it, it makes a sonorous Dong which will wake up the whole street.

I have painted  Send Not To Know on it, which made Mark laugh. When Oliver wanted to know why, Mark explained that it was so people would think I was clever, which is probably accurate enough. It has amused me, which is all that matters, really I would have expected to have become a real grown-up by now but it would appear that this transition is not automatic, if anybody knows how you achieve it then do let me know. I am still in the middle of laying the plinth for the cannon in the garden and purchasing the Jolly Roger flag on eBay. The clay will arrive soon for me to manufacture a drowned fairy for the water trough.

I am enjoying my old age.

Oliver and Emily came with us to the Indian restaurant, in true Windermere style Emily, who arrived yesterday, has now got a job and will be starting work on Friday when we get back from York.

We have not worked tonight, and we will not be working tomorrow either, having a birthday is absolutely splendid.

I have got an early start in the morning, so I am going to go to bed.

Happy, happy birthday to me.

Sixty…