The lucky stroke crippled me and gave me a new life. Now I'm just unbelievably good looking and modest. Always turn a little to the left.
16 Oct 2012
My cups half full and I'm still pouring.
I'm 70 years old. I don't know how to regard this, am I one year closer to the grave, or miraculous, I'm still here, even if I am creeping about on my bung leg and crook arm.
That's the trouble with being 70. You'd like to run, climb trees, dig the garden, dance and skip up and down stairs, but hell it hurts.
Poor Joe loves running. He used to run four miles four times a week. Last month he felt really good. "I'm going to run up a hill," he said.
And he did. A bit. Then ping! went his hamstring.
No wonder some older persons are drinking more than the permitted amount, which seems rather measly anyway, anyway hangovers aren't what they used to be.
I drank four times what I should have recently, but I was at a pre-birthday dinner party with buddies and we all overdid it, why not, it helped us to forget our impairments: irregular heartbeats, poorly knees, high blood pressure, indigestion, arthritis, un-bendy back, tinnitus, trigger-finger and mild Murray Valley fever virus.
Now I don't want to throw you all into the doldrums. We all vary, the party host who is also past the sound barrier, can still stand on his head, and Aurthur, 69, after a lifetime of yoga, cycling and pottery, can do anything.
Last week he tore off my garage roof and ripped out a fitted wardrobe.(neither of these things needed doing).
I still think our jokes are brilliant and I've got great friends. So it's cup half-full. Hanging on, and still having fun, fun, fun.