YOU know those days when it dawns on you that ‘tempus fugit’ has its consequences? I’ve just had one of them. Well, two in a row, actually.
The ageing Jaguar is back on the morning roads, taking The Daughter Who Left (But Returned) to work on one of those awkward shifts when parking is an impossibility.
Naturally, she has absolute control over the car radio. Which means thirty minutes of listening to unlistenable music and incomprehensible conversation, if that’s the word I’m groping for.
Daughter delivered, I call at the care home to discuss arrangements for my centenarian dad to have his ears syringed, and to wish mum a good morning. Delighted to find them both in good spirits.
Then it’s off to the chiropodist to have a painful corn attended to. This is the first time I’ve had said procedure. It feels like a right of passage, but into what precisely? Shakespeare insisted there were seven ages of man; I’m well past the mewling and puking, the whining, the sighing, and the quarrelsome (sometimes); I dare to hope that I haven’t yet reached the lean and slippered stage.
Anyway, freshly-footed I’m off next to the dentist. Yesterday morning I was eating some meditative muesli when I encountered an unusually hard grain. It was only when I glanced in the bathroom mirror later that I spotted the cracked tooth.
Have you ever experienced the moment when you realise you’ve inadvertently swallowed part of your own tooth? I wouldn’t recommend it especially. It’s not guaranteed to create what you may describe as perfect mental equilibrium.
So I have become a creature of the horny foot and the broken tooth. Time’s winged chariot and all that.
Cheered myself up by stopping at Nick John Wines on the way home, and buying an Albarino for The Wine List project. Things improved further with The Current Mrs Feeney’s bubble and squeak for supper, washed down with French Merlot (see The Wine List #7 below).
I ate with enjoyment, if with a degree of circumspection. A man can’t be too careful at a certain age, you know.