So now I’m 71. I guess it was inevitable – or at least, there was only one alternative, as there so often is (grammatical joke). I would like to say I had a very pleasant birthday yesterday, and in fact I did. My wife made every effort to look after me and succeeded. It culminated first in the excitement of having my hair cut, and then attendance at a Julian meeting at the Greens which was unashamedly hijacked by my birthday celebrations (thanks to Dot and Anna), some lovely food and even champagne. Wonderful evening.
Nevertheless she is spending today with another man – in the case Paul Henderson, who is accompanying her to the DSSO bash at Diocesan House. I am working my way down my Reminders list. Very slowly. So far I have got my pills from the chemist.
In other news, we went to London on Saturday to see the Coomes, leaving Norwich in pouring rain which apparently lingered for Norwich but turned into quite a pleasant, dry day in London. Had a lovely lunch in Leyton. David was not much different to the naked eye but is apparently deteriorating. Still, we had a good talk and solved most of the world’s problems.
On Monday I led the service in the presence of the vicar, which sounds nerve-wracking but was in fact fine. Eleanor gave a really good talk. The rest of the day we spent largely in front of the TV, watching various sporting events. France shot themselves in the foot in the Euro 2016 final by not breaking sweat until Portugal scored, by when it was too late. The reluctance to risk anything is spoiling most international football nowadays. On the plus side, Murray and Hamilton won.
On Monday I went to Bruce Robinson’s funeral at St Faith’s. A very simple service was followed by refreshments at the Marsham Arms which included all the usual suspects except Martin Throssell, who had apparently been unable to find his way there by following my directions. Had quite a chat with Cynthia and others.
On the way home, however, I got a puncture, limped into Horsford and called the emergency people after trying unsuccessfully to use the gunge kit in the boot to reinflate the tyre. Both the emergency man and the garage said this was awful stuff and should never be used, which sort of makes you wonder why they supply it. Apparently they don’t supply a spare tyre because it affects the mpg, but I would happily sacrifice a little mpg for a spare tyre. I suspect most drivers would.
The emergency man was very quick and transported the car and me to my own garage (about three miles away). As I was due to have it serviced tomorrow anyway, I left it there, and it is still there (I hope). I walked up the road and caught a bus. Later I went with Dot to pick up some pills for Phil and Joy, who both have UTIs, then dropped off a misaddressed card reader to the new church treasurer, then delivered the pills and three bags of laundry to P & J. It’s all go.