Today marks the day on which I turn a day older than my most recent birthday. Aren't I a bloody marvel?
Incidentally, I share a birthday - by date only, mind you - with Adelaide's eldest lady, though the vast gap between her twinkling eyes and my eyelids at half-mast still holds firm as she celebrated her 110th birthday this time around. May there be plenty more (for both of us).
I can't wait for the day I turn 100: news crews will knock on my door as they strike out at capturing that elusive credibility factor yet again; I'll only let in those with female "journalists" covering the must-do story; I'll let my fingers explore the contours of only the female "journalists'" bodies and cackle like an evil centurian on a mission to raise the main sail one last time; the occasion will lead to an international "news story" as a Fox "journalist" mysteriously contracts an injury stemming from a walking stick incident involving her upturned skirt and anus; my 90-year-old mates and I will share a laugh over a few beers in the backyard.