Further ramblings of a self-made pauper

Happy birthday to westernind.

*Clears throat*

Happy birthday to you,
Squashed tomatoes and stew,
Bread and Butter
In the Gutter,
Happy birthday to yoooooooooooooo....

*coughcoughcough*

I have just realised something which, were I a depressive soul, would certainly depress me; although, as I generally state, the alternative is pretty rotten.

At one nanosecond past midday on Saturday next, that’s the 6 August, for you calendar-challenged types out there, I shall officially be closer to my 47th birthday than my 46th, which I failed to celebrate by virtue of having to pack for the move to Whetstone. That means that in 2½ years I shall hit 50, and the gentle down slope will steepen. I think I can feel my knee joints giving out in anticipation already. I am already dancing on the edge of granddad territory, and that will make it the full waltz…

This revelation of passing mortality was brought to me as a consequence of musing on what to buy my eldest niece for her 18th birthday on September 11th.

As I said, I’m not depressed by all this, though a couple of G&Ts would probably see to that.

Now, as the nearest I got to celebrating my birthday, was to stop packing long enough to down a couple of cans of Stella from the fridge, I was thinking maybe I should give some thought to celebrating my forty-six and a halfth birthday.

I shall mull this over. Or maybe just forget it.

So what does one buy a young lady on the occasion of her coming of age, nowadays? After all, mulling on that is what got me started on this thread.