Today I’m 64.

As lame a song as it ever was.

Will you still need me? No. Oldheads doddering into uselessness.

But I’m in my chair, seemingly somnolent, and my supposedly senile mind is still on fire. You just can’t see it. Unless you take care to loook. I am 64 but I’m not interested in being Sir Paul McCartney. You? I’m more like the dirty guy still in the trenches.

The grand farewell is not far away. But it has its attractions.

And then there’s legacy. Just a writer. I’m content with that.

Happy Birthday to me.

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