2014 is the year when Jones and I - God willing - are both due to turn 70. I find this prospect quite daunting, mindful of the "three score and ten" warning that is writ in His book. Jones is unimpressed, dismissing our septuagenarian onset as just another number.
Nonetheless, it has certain unwelcome implications. One of these is that for the next decade, I shall have to renew my driving licence every two years, after which - assuming I'm still around and driving - it will be every year. Renewal requires a certificate from a doctor to the effect that, medically at least, one is still competent to take the wheel.
As it happens, I shall also have to renew my passport. At some point in the next month or two, I plan a day-trip to Lisbon to submit the passport application. With these renewals in mind, I stopped at the photo shop in Loule this week to obtain the necessary snapshots.
I was careful to point out to the photographer the required dimensions and qualities, mindful of Jones's experience last year when the UK passport office rejected the pics she supplied and required her to take new ones.
The smaller shots, on the left, are for my driving licence.
Speaking of the UK, Jones returned last weekend from a brief visit marked by a frantic train journey to visit friends in Eastbourne. Her train, like a great many others, was cancelled because of flooding. She found herself directed to an alternative service from which she had to alight further down the line.
Railway officials guided passengers to front and back carriages on subsequent trains, according to their destinations, amid much confusion - with still more stops and changes to follow. It was with great relief that she eventually arrived in time for a very late lunch. The return trip was just as bad. The 90-minute journey took well over three hours. A large baggy and coke was required to help restore her equilibrium.
THE HYENAS CLOSE IN ON THE CAT'S MILK BOWL
The night before her return, Portugal was assailed by gales. Although I bolted all the shutters and closed all the doubled-glazed doors, the wind still howled and shrieked about the house, buffeting it with gusts that made me think of the big bad wolf and three little piggies. Such tempests always unsettle the dogs (as well as the humans).
Mary took the opportunity to join Ono and Pricks on the bed intimating, as she settled down beside me, that she was just a little girl in need of reassurance and would take up hardly any room.
She tried the trick again this week, squeezing Jones into a corner scarcely big enough for a rabbit. Jones says enough is enough, although exactly what she means by that I'm not sure, as Mary is bigger than she is as well as smart and determined. Matters may be relieved slightly when our new wider bed arrives.
With sadness I must record the passing of Bold, aka Sick Cat, a relative of our black cats, Squinty and Braveheart, whose survival against the odds has been entirely due to the long-standing kindness of Jones and our neighbour, Sarah, between whose houses Sick Cat has commuted. He has ailed as long as we can remember, remaining as thin as a rake in spite of consuming the generous and delicious cat temptations that his carers daily put his way. This week, as it became apparent that he was succumbing to his ills, Sarah and David took him to the vet, where he was diagnosed with feline HIV - it's thought as the result of a fight. He was buried in the field below their house. (As you may have gathered, all our animals are He's and She's rather than It's.)
The RSI that has been troubling my right elbow appears to be transferring itself to my left elbow. This may be because, to relieve my right arm, I have been using my left hand to play Spider Solitaire, an infernal game introduced to me by a niece. (You may count yourself lucky to be ignorant of it!)
Nonetheless, as you see, I am determined to get the blog up this week. To lose one blog may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose two .... etc
We have been watching a new BBC TV series in which amateur interior designers compete with a limited time and budget to redecorate the rooms of volunteer householders. Two "experts" then compare the results (with a great deal of hyperbole and gush) and declare a winner of each round - inevitably the least talented competitor. It's with awesome fascination that one sees perfectly liveable if somewhat dowdy living rooms turned into fashionable chambers of horrors. I have always harboured a prejudice against interior designers but I am now convinced that dry rot and woodworm are preferable visitors.
You will rightly gather that I am not a follower of fashion. Apart from being unwilling to go out looking like an idiot, I can't see the point of purchasing garments whose strut-by date is due to render them unfashionable long before they wear out, thus defeating their primary purpose. (Am I missing something?)
Nonetheless, over the years I have developed a fondness for certain classical brands, purely - I should emphasise - for their comfort and durability. These include Tilley hats, Stormtech jackets, Ecco shoes and boots and Falke Coolmax socks.
I do not completely rule out the possibility that in due course I might become slightly fashion conscious. However this transformation is not imminent and Jones certainly isn't banking on it.
I never cease to wonder at the dreams that command my sleeping hours. In one of these, I ascended to the upper floor of a house to discover, with great surprise, that it had become a large field. On it were several ex-monks - a species that continues to haunt my dreams - who showed little interest in talking to me. I had the distinct impression that I was out of favour.
Then appeared a group of five people who danced in a circle while singing a song that was clearly directed at me. This comprised several verses, each of which was followed by the refrain "Congratulations Terry B without rising".
I was sitting down at the time and took this to mean that I could remain seated although what I had done to deserve such praise eluded me. It still does. I strongly suspect that I would have driven Freud to drink. I certainly need a strong cup of coffee in the morning when I wake.
As it happens, I woke to my daily cuppa this morning to glance through the small bedroom side window to a glorious show of sun-lit almond blossom. That's as good as exterior design gets.
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