The last week has been a momentous one for my wife and me. I had a birthday at the beginning of the week; my reaction to turning 80 is one of restrained enthusiasm - it is at least better than the alternative.
But, after decades of birthdays which I had successively characterised as meaning that I had, first, reached "late" middle age, and then joined the ranks of the "elderly", I must now accept that I have become undeniably "old". It is not an unwelcome conclusion - and everyone congratulates me on reaching a "milestone" - but no one is impolite enough to question the ultimate destination of the journey on which this milestone has been reached.
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Inevitably, however, thoughts of my - and our - inescapable mortality must arise. And I am sorry to say (and, I really mean, truly sorry) that I had another reason to confront the inevitability of life's conclusion. Our dear little friend, Lachie - our little westie - "shuffled off this mortal coil" on my birthday.
Thank you to all those of you who inquired as to how he was faring. He put up a good fight but it was one that he could not win. The cancer was too tough for even our brave little chap to overcome.