Sunday, February 15, 2015


Last February, I went to the funeral of a good friend, and shocked myself at the number of gravestones marking the deaths of people at the age of 48. Forty-eight - it seems - is a fashionable age to die round these parts, and was something that did not appeal to me in the slightest.

Then, I turned 48.

Twelve months in living in the fear of Death's icy grip (including one day under the surgeon's knife), and I am now forty-nine years old.

Yes, another year closer to that hole in the ground, but I have this to say: IN YOUR FACE GRIM REAPER I AM BULLET-PROOF.

Send cake.

1 comment:

Dioclese said...

I was quite chuffed when I lived longer than my father