Time and Mary Davies.

It’s been a long time since I wrote a blog post. I fear it might be a long time before I write another one, but time will tell. Time always tells until the sands run out, and then it stops and moves on to tell somebody else. (Meanwhile, it continues to allow me the time-honoured propensity for irrational statements. I always took the view that irrational statements are fine as long as I know what they mean. Time is ever blasé about such matters; it’s one of the old man’s more liberal traits.)

The fact is that my mind currently lacks the sort of mental vitality necessary for the making of blog posts. The only reason I’m making this one is the sudden realisation that today (4^th December in all but name) is Mary Davies’s birthday.

Readers of longstanding might remember that Mary has had several mentions on this blog. She was dark of hair, slight of build and pretty of visage, with an ever-present hint of mischief in her eyes and a penchant for romantic deception in her make up.  Had she been a dark Irish colleen possessed of a black velvet band, she would have carried the association well. As far as her association with me is concerned, her indubitable claim to distinction is that she introduced me to my libido. My mother disliked her because she felt that Mary was leading me astray. No other recommendation need be offered.

So, Happy Birthday Mary Davies, albeit a few hours late. I remember your birthday because you were just six days younger than me. It horrifies me to reflect on the fact that you’re still just six days younger than me.