It’s been a day of revelations today – all mildly disturbing,
all unwelcome, but none terribly serious. That’s why there haven’t been any
rants, muses or ditties this evening. I’ve been too engaged in rueful
reflection on low burn. It seems to be that time of life.
Talking of which, there was a poster in the doctor’s waiting
area advertising a coming seminar entitled How We Make End of Life Decisions. ‘End
of life’ is the current ‘in’ euphemism for you-know-what, and I find it a
strange phrase. It’s prosaic and practical, and carries an undisguised air of
inevitability, which isn’t really how euphemisms usually function. And it’s
what makes it so chilling. You’d think they’d call it something like How We
Make Going-To-Be-With-Jesus Decisions, wouldn’t you?
But then, almost precisely at the very witching time of
night, Zoe dropped in – Zoe of somewhere in New York, but I don’t know where because she
doesn’t talk to me. That was good; that was positive; that was uplifting. And
it was probably just as well that she didn’t talk to me because I’ve had quite
enough of that sort of thing for one day.
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