As Stevie Wonder would say, it’s celebration time. If I were a cricketer people would be on their feet applauding. If I were a few years older I’d get a telegram from the Queen.
We have this former neighbour in Liverpool who as kids we always thought was a relative. It turns out she’s no relation to us at all but we still go and visit her is if she were, (let’s face it, ageing relatives – even pretend ones – are hard to find these days). We went to see her last week. She’s 94, has eight children, the youngest of which is 52, and she can’t wait to get the Queen’s telegram – she even pretends she’s 95 . As we get near her house, DG asks how long we should stay. ‘She’ll tell you’, I say.
Winnie, a devout Catholic, proudly shows us the postcard she’s received from Rome: a picture of Pope John Paul with Mother Teresa – her two favourite people. ‘I know’, I say. ‘We sent it to you.’ This does not deter her from reading to us – without glasses - the message that we wrote to her.
We chat and drink tea, and after 35 minutes she asks me to open a cupboard and take out a video cassette. Then she asks me to put it on without the sound – ‘I just like the colour in the background’. Five minutes later asks us to turn up the sound because she can’t hear it. We get the message and leave. There are some benefits to being 94 - sorry. 95.
But for me there won’t be applause or telegram. I don’t even expect a cake - I’m not sure the occasion merits one. Don't know whether it demonstrates stamina or lethargy - my hundredth post.