Tomorrow is my birthday. I am soon to be of an age that no respectable lady would mention in a public place. I, though, am no lady. I am a gentle homme of advancing years who hates the cold blast of the Arctic and the even colder draught of my older self. At the moment, I feel as if I am approaching 150 years rather than the 120 that has convinced my old bones that the spurs that I do not wear ought to be hung up for good.
Old man river, that old man river,
He just keeps repeating himself.
My idea of Hell would be an eternity with a group of half-wits. I would hate their cheery hellos. Their light-touch conversation about putting the washing out, having a trip to M&S, planning a salad from their Jamie cookbook. What is worse than all of this would be…
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