When He's Sixty-Four

On awakening this morning I thought it was Monday and started wondering what needed doing. While pondering this, it dawned on me that it was Sunday and there was nothing I needed to do. It was a lovely feeling - like I'd been given an extra day of life.

So - what did I do with my extra day?

I finished reading the book that the postman delivered yesterday.

It's not the first time I've read a book in such a short time but it's been a while. It was easy, too easy. Back to the reading pile where I'm still plodding through Sam McBride's Burned and Sheri Fink's Five Days At Memorial, starting to really enjoy Edith Wharton's House of Mirth which came as an indirect recommendation from Ganching and the discovery of two copies on my bookshelves. I finished F For Ferg a few days ago, a loan from Hannah.

I'd always wanted to read Ian Cochrane but the novels were out of print for years. He's a Northern Irish writer and F For Ferg appears to be set in Cullybackey.

So what else did I do with this additional day of life?

I made Bert breakfast and played him a particular Beatles track that alluded to a special day. 

Yes indeed - I still need him and I still feed him. I even baked him a birthday cake, his favourite - Victoria Sponge with cream and raspberry jam. And guess what? We only had marmalade, so you know what I did? I found a bag of frozen raspberries in the freezer and made raspberry jam. 

Happy Birthday Bert. You're the best and you're worth it.