The other day, I broke a long-standing rule: I responded to an advertisement that promised an instant, lasting cure for age-related wrinkles. It was very expensive, but what the H..., you are only old once. After several days of using it my skin did, indeed, look smoother so I began to be reconciled to the price and even started to use it more liberally. By chance, in a friend's bathroom, I came upon a magnifying mirror. Dear Reader, my skin is not smoother. My eyes are weaker; so much for vanity. It seems I have to put up with the status quo now and relinquish the status quo ante.
In that vein, prudently, I have been taking 'end of life' precautions. The young have been given lists of this and that and told where to find one thing and another. During this process, when my desk was covered in supposedly relevant papers, a relative rang and asked if it were a good time to talk. While describing the state of my desk I added that, before telephoning an Undertaker (Mortician, if you are in Mountain View California) the young should order two skips (Here, my American language skills fail me. I don't know what a recepticle for rubbish is called. (Yes I do: it's a dumpster. Hurray for the man in my language archive; a fast mover when the need is really urgent). He replied that if they ordered two skips, they may not need the Undertaker. I rather enjoy what we call Gallows Humour, don't you? Well, actually, I enjoy any kind of humour. It feels like the oil which smooths the sluggish engine of my existence. My colleague and I, on the Enquiry Desk at the local hospital, keep telling one another funny stories and even jokes in general circulation. Recently, it was about her three cats. Caught outside, in a cloudburst of rain, they dashed, together, for the door to the inside. Two of them got wedged side by side in the rush, stuck and intractable. The third, having been pipped to the post, saw his chance and leapt over the pair of them. It's not a helpful image to have in your mind's eye when someone is asking where is the Intensive Care Unit. We find ourselves laughing so hard the enquirers have to speak up and apologise for interupting us, but, please, don't tell that to our manager. I have also been setting out my wishes for my funeral. Looking at it, nicely printed from my laptop, I saw that it was virtually a programme for a concert. I am really disappointed that I won't be there to hear it. A very dear friend is a celebrated performing musician. Ages ago, before I was up in the bracket that has to take these things as imminent, he overheard me saying how many of his recordings would form part of my memorial. He said he might well play the pieces in person. "But", qouth he, "we'll have to talk dates because I am getting very busy". Bore da