I don’t come from a family of long livers. A few of the
women made it into their eighties, but none of the men ever did to my
knowledge. A couple of them didn’t even manage seventy. That being the case,
and especially since I haven’t exactly been diligent in taking care of myself
down the years, I expect to come up a little short of average.
And so it struck me this morning that if any woman were to
take me under her wing, it would be, in terms of anticipated longevity at
least, a bit like taking on a new puppy. And it wouldn’t even be a pedigree
puppy she’d be giving a home to; it would be a moody little mongrel with psychological
issues and behavioural difficulties.
Oh well, back to the makeshift kennel in the corner of the
allotment, then.
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