Sixty-four

“When he gets older losing his hair
Not so many years from now
Will I still be sending him a Valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine

When he’s sixty-four
I’ll be older too”

Yes, well, you get the gist.

One of us has reached that far away pinnacle of old age, and it wasn’t me. (I remember back in the 1970s counting forward to the year 2000, marvelling at the very old age I would have got to then. Now I think about it, it wasn’t so bad…)

And no, I don’t generally send him Valentines. I don’t think he’d want one. This year Daughter and I shared a birthday card, even. But it was mathematical, and that’s what counts. (See what I did there?)

Son and I had the same idea for a present, but luckily not identical. Let’s just say Bookwitch Towers will henceforth be equipped with both Private Eye and The New Statesman. And coffee, and socks adorned with mostly mathematical stuff, but the odd taco and pineapple did shoulder their way in too.

Thank goodness for authors who send out newsletters. Stephen Booth reminded me just in time that he had the perfect gift. His new-ish, standalone crime novel Drowned Lives in hardback, with any dedication I wanted, posted directly to where it was wanted.

So that was that.

(So far we have resisted singing that song out loud. Might not be able to keep it up, though.)

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