Seven weeks and three days to go - Getting old.

Well, birthday week has been safely navigated and my liver still seems to be working. I'm not a big fan of birthdays. Every year it seems to me that having to organise a party seems to be more of a punishment than a present. Having to stress about where and when and who and then buy all the bloody food/beer and then having to clean up after. I'm a bit of a humbug I guess. I think the birthdayee should get a day off in which he or she should stay at home watching telly until after tea and then go down to the pub. If you want to see him then you go and visit him at home and have a nice cup of tea or you can meet him later at the pub and have a pint. Easy. No announcements, invitations, RSVPs, obligation nor cleaning up. That said. I had a lovely time.

Dog on birthday walk on San Cristobal Hill, Santiago

They say that with age comes experience. My experience in the last few years has often been at the hands of physiotherapists, doctors and even surgeons. The paces I've care-freely put my body through ever since I learned to walk/fall are beginning to show and I now have a collection of scans showing healed breaks and wonky joints and curvy bones. When archaeologists dig up my bones in a thousand years they'll presume that I was either a terrible driver or a human canon-ball. So, with a couple of new aches and pains I've been checked in for some more physiotherapy, this time with the rather exciting prospect of a paraffin bath. I'm also trying to improve core-strength every morning with the help of the lovely Adriene. 

As for the move, all is good. I've sold a few more pieces of furniture and Girlf. is trying to find us an apartment on an island. I hope it's craggy island.