we're all making our own sense of things
Today, the mister, he be forty three (43).
Now, I know, as does he, that 43 comes after 42, which is preceded by 41 and that by 40, which, ten years before was 30, which, in turn, is 15 after 15 and so on, and yet and all the same
forty three (43)
DID NOT SEE IT COMING.
Happy birthday, my love. You know, you’re the oldest person I ever lived with.
I get this email from this mister, and it’s the best email he’s ever written me, and I email back and say, ‘I hate to make hay from your misery, but can I blog that?’ To which there has, so far, been no reply.
But I suspect that’s only because he’s sleeping. Stay tuned for a guest post from the mister.
The mister My tech crew has arrived. We took him on a bit of a walk around the ‘hood (‘here’s where we buy our musk sticks’ and ‘here’s where Mum buys her wine’), then down to the Royal Mile, checked out my venue, and now he’s having a sleep (underneath a blanket, it’s a bit chillier here than the desert weather he’s used to).
It’s good to have someone else in the house whose arms are long enough to do the dishes.