|All manner of stuff happened. It really has been quite entertaining reading back through around 12 years of bignjuicystuff. Some painfully naive, some far cleverer than I remember being and some woefully dated and now rendered strange by shriveled topicality. Talking of which – I have yet to succumb to facial fillers, botox or any unnatural plumping agents. As my e-organ is, for the moment, enjoying revivification, so my visage and all regions south of there remain naturally toned and impressive. Hold that mental image.
Just lately I have been reflecting on my demise. As you do. The imminent clicking on of the birthday clock does that to a chap. The horse chestnuts are in bloom, the cherry blossom adorns the gutters. I am reminded, as I am at this time most years of Denis Potter. I make a point of looking intently at the blossom; it may be the last time. I want to revel in the frothy magnificence, the frilly exuberance, the floral gorgeousness of it all. A memory to hold on to for when days darken and branches become bare. I imagine a time when the blossom will be there and I won’t.
A few weeks ago I uncovered some online records of ancestors. The few brief traces of their lives recorded in census and property records reveal whole lifetimes spent in a network of city streets one can walk through in less than an hour. Looking at the names, picturing them as real people. Growing, ageing, dying, becoming just an entry in a ledger. Lives forgotten for the large part. Connected to me; their blossom.