I realised earlier that today is my ex-wife's birthday. I worked out how old she is now and felt a slight, involuntary shudder. I tried to imagine what she must look like, but gave up the attempt as impossible.
And then I remembered why I was never capable of making a lifelong commitment, which is effectively synonymous with saying why I was never the marrying kind. It's only a few years since I finally worked that one out, but I've never explained it on the blog and almost certainly never will. But happy birthday, Anna, notwithstanding. (I do wonder, however, whether she's still living in Wales with an archaeologist. And I do still wonder how old Beaumont the rabbit was when he died.)
I'm making this post to get the monthly post total off 13 because two 13s in one day sounds a bit risky. And I'm still working on the pocket edition of my memoirs. At the moment it needs two pockets and there's a bit to go yet. Hopefully, publication shouldn't be too far in the future. Maybe I'll die before it's finished, but probably not. And who the hell -- but me -- cares anyway?
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