Tuesday August 12, 2008
“It’s a birthday,” I said. “Not a national holiday.”
We’d just done the opening of cards and pressies (strictly limited by my request) ritual and Graham had asked me what I wanted to do to mark the day.
“No, of course not. Even so, you do deserve a couple of little treats.”
“Ok. How’s about Burnham-on-Sea for lunch and a stroll on the prom and bubble-and-squeak for dinner?”
“Well, if that’s what you really want.”
And that’s what we did. I insisted we should keep to our programme and call in at the town dump with a modest boot-load of crappy from the garage but otherwise the day was a pleasant, low key affair.
It's a matter of balance
My thanks to all those who’ve sent good wishes. My own best wish for myself on my 69th is to have sufficient will-power to keep my waistline reduction promise to myself–ten inches less by this time next year. I’m proposing to do it by eating and drinking sensibly and by taking a decent walk every day, regardless of the weather. Today we walked rather more than a mile in total, despite the rain showers, and I’ve eaten and drunk in moderation, especially for a birthday boy.
Why? Because carrying this amount of weight around with me is beginning, just beginning to make life a little too static for comfort. And, sometimes, a little too painful. I’m not doing it for vanity. In fact, I rather enjoy being a jolly, rotund little man, and I’m very fond of my tummy. The problem is that it’s destroying my balance, and my joints.
I’ll never be a slim wand of youth again and I don’t think I’d enjoy it if I managed it. It’s quite plain to me that, all these years, there’s been a little old fat man inside me, trying to get out. I need to keep him under control for just a little while longer is all.
As to being 69 years old, it feels pretty good, actually. Like I tell Graham, it’s my next birthday that people need to look out for. I’m shedding inhibitions like they’ve only just been invented already. When I’m 70 I intend to do rather more of what I please and altogether less of what I ought.
And so, another year done. I suppose I ought to feel that I’m counting down from here on out. Well, I don’t. I’m not counting down, I’m counting up.
