Gloater's Shoulder

If Captain Butterfly keeps on beating me in our morning Ordling competition (Wordle/Quordle/Octordle) there may well be a new condition hitting the tabloid headlines for us to worry about, namely Gloaters Shoulder (Gloaters Humero, to give it its Latin name).  It will be caused by too much triumphant punching of the air. 

Who is supposed to be the wordsmith in this marriage?!  See the picture of Waiting for Gordo above. 

You will note - by the way - that Gordo is NOT - according to its front cover - a New York Times Bestseller, unlike every other book ever published these days.  True, but what a lovely cover the publisher gave me.

If he - my young publisher - was rich and powerful enough to get it into the Airport bookshops, I think that the cover alone would make it sell like hotcakes.  And then I too would have been a New York Times Bestseller.

However, I am very grateful to be published.  Very grateful.

Col and I also compete at Countdown every afternoon - well, we record it and have it with our supper. But he is rather distracted by the lovely Rachel, so I do have a bit of a head start there.

'Our balcony is flourishing and I must get Col to photograph it for me.  I have one of those photographing phones myself, but it is no use me trying unless anyone wants yet another photograph of me looking especially gormless saying: "How do you do this?!"

Col had his usual Saturday and Sunday metal-detecting. And he took some photos of wild garlic that I have recruited for my next blog.  I attended the Zoom funeral/memorial on Saturday afternoon.  It was a lovely tribute to our sister and included a reminder of the hope of the resurrection, the time when she will be woken from the dreamless sleep of death and see this lovely earth again. And I zoomed to the Kingdom Hall on Sunday.

I am sleeping a bit more now, but not nearly enough, and feel very very tired.  But I am so grateful the pain has subsided enough that I can get at least some sleep.

Getting old is a painful business.  But it was never meant to be like this.  And am I really that old?  I haven't yet had eighty springs - though I am pretty close.  I cannot tell you how quickly it has gone.