I was going to title this post “Too much life”and apologise for not being more regular in keeping things up to date. Then it struck me that as I am the same age as my grandfather when he had to leave work due to Parkinson’s Disease. At that point being busy suddenly didn’t look too bad. It’s a bit like getting out of bed in the morning and straightening a couple of reluctant joints (the little finger of my left hand is the latest recruit to the creaking joint club and is very reluctant to bend now things have turned cold) before I sit on the bed to put my socks on. It’s not an ideal situation, and it isn’t how I envisaged myself ending up, but it’s a lot better than the alternative.
When you start comparing ages, I’m 12 years older than D. H. Lawrence was when he died. That’s a bit of a sobering thought as he’d done quite a lot by the age of 44 – accused of spying by both the Germans and the English to name but two of the more unusual ones.
It’s a dangerous game to start – I’m also a year older than Julius Caesar when he died and 21 years older than Henry V. They did so much that they are still famous today. So, to “not writing prize-winning novels” you can add “not invading Rome” and “not invading France” to my list of non-achievements. On the other hand, I’m the same age as Adolf Hitler when he died so you can’t always measure yourself against others.
So, having covered everything from life to death, here’s my epitaph.
He wrote a blog of little consequence, he grew a beard and he never invaded anyone.
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