I can't find much to make it sound nicer - I could say quatre-vingts, or ottanta, or ochenta, or achtzig. I could even say, echoing another bing-caller "Ghandi's breakfast" [translation: "ate nought" or looking down from above on Mahatma Gandhi sitting cross-legged in front of a plate.] TSK!
However it's termed, nothing will change the fact that I shall arrive at the big
Eight-Oh, birthday-wise, on Sunday 27th. I'll arrive not particularly bloody, other than bloody-minded, and not particularly unbowed except for the joint and muscle pains brought on by a pesky medication which will have to be given the old heave-ho.
So, in honour of all the above considerations, I'm giving myself a long weekend off-blog to mark the...erm...event.
“I see birthdays as a reward for having shown up 365 in a row. It's like getting a badge for attendance.”
― Gina Barreca. "If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?": Questions and Thoughts for Loud, Smart Women in Turbulent Times.
“Don't celebrate how old you are, celebrate the years you survived.”
― Touaxia Vang.
