The Feckless Mob

Another weekend has been and gone. And today is a Bank Holiday. Its sunny but is apparently going to be cold.  No problem for me (she said selfishly) and anyway one benefit of being old and retired is that you can stay home on a Bank Holiday.  Hurray!

I hope I shall have some achievements for the day, though all I feel like doing is going back to bed.  One thing I will have to do is to join the Feckless Mob at our one local shop that's open as I failed to go out and shop yesterday afternoon.  I came back after the meeting and, after I had done my chauffering duties, made lunch (the Captain was out with sandwiches and detector), I fell asleep on the sofa in front of the Snooker. 

I only want berries.  We have our usual veggie soup for lunch (already made) and a pizza for supper.

I had to join the mob last Bank Holiday too as I had forgotten to buy something.  Clearly I have a severe lack of feck.

Sad news from Sheffield.  My bro in law Ken is not at all well.   And he is not young. And not well enough for any kind of operation.

Every generation since disobedient Adam has gone through this - the losses of the ones we love and the loss of our own selves coming nearer as we slide faster and faster down the slippery slope.

What you don't realise when you are young, mercifully, is how short our lives are now.  They are gone before you know it.

And yet I am happy - and I appreciate the gift of life on this beautiful planet more and more.  And hope to be able to live on it forever.  It is an undeserved kindness, so we can all have hope.  The valiant Jean and I were out on Saturday trying to tell people about the Creator, Jehovah. We did return visits, and had a couple of very good calls. We now have to get on, and get back to them.

Jackie came round on Saturday, for Chicken Kiev (courtesy of Marks and Sparks) and new pots and veggies (courtesy of me).  We just had yoghurt to follow. And sympathised and laughed with each other about the rigours and indignities of old age.

Here is a poem.  One not written by me, but one I would love to have written.

On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness

                                                          by Arthur Guiterman (1871-1943)

The tusks that clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is ferric oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear whose potent hug
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar’s bust is on my shelf,
And I don’t feel so well myself.