Like Time itself, we must march ever forward. Well, in my case, it's more of a cross between a lurch and a limp; but I'm getting there slowly. I broke my ankle in the first days of September and you find me now with crutches and an infernal boot, compliments of the rehab people; a vessel which weighs several kilos and is designed to keep me wobbling that ankle-bone.
All praise to the Spanish national health which did a bang-up job (nine pins and a plate in my shin-bone) and cost me nothing more than a few sandwiches in the hospital tuck-shop.
But now we have entered the bit of November where for many years I celebrated Thanksgiving - the American holiday which involves eating turkey, mash, stuffing, peas and pumpkin pie. I celebrate no longer, because my poor Californian wife is dead and the kids are all in the USA (there are not many jobs for foreign bilingual well-educated kids in Modern Spain).
So this year I shall make myself a turkey sandwich.
Thanksgiving in our family also meant my birthday. A bit like Easter, my cumpleaño traveled around the late-November calendar always managing to fortuitously land on Thanksgiving Thursday, assuring me of a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It made up for having my birthday in the school term during my formative years (no cake, no presents and, as often as not, a Latin exam to deal with).
This year, my birthday, now returned to a regular date (next Monday, since you ask) will be the dubious celebration of my sixty-fifth year on this earth duly registered. If I were to get a pension, I would get it now.
However, all is not lost, I'm due a bus-pass apparently, if I can only hobble to the bus-stop half a mile away.