Q. Given I'm 55 on 1106this and my guess is correct: what date was her 27th birthday? (1106 is 11 June here, not November 6.)
No prizes for the answer, but purchase prize for best working out in pretty colours and / or dynamic graphics. No cracks either, 'her' is a daughter.
FUTURES: now there's a TAG. . . but in the meanwhile, what of my retirement expectations I ask? What of 'my rights? '
If they're mine, I intend to have them.
Okay, cracks are fine, and will be considered.
I want that gold-watch-gesture. The change of the guard parade, the go away and enjoy yourself oh good and faithful, now useless, drone, drudge, slave, retainer and 'good riddance (go and die)', we need that sinecure you've been occupying for someone else promoted to incompetence.
Wouldn't I like the 'Free at Last', go and enjoy yourself gift from society to crown the sense of achievement from a life of dutiful work (? ) and my fifty-fifth hoves . . . I was supposed by date of birth expectation to be considering retirement.
Enjoying my work as I do and not having achieved half I want with it, I've never needed a hobby. I could never afford a hobby, neither the time nor the money, so I've nothing to fall back on see, and I don't have the money to stop working even if I wanted to . . . which I don't. Look, I'm just getting into my stride and life is short and quickly passing.
It's not just presidents of the Royal Academy I miss; entire world beating cricket teams have conquered and retired unremarked.
Retired again. Retiring, this rite of passage that doesn't know when it is, or how we can pay for it; how tiresome it is to be burdened by birthdays.
I've never liked birthdays much.
Well, I've never liked mine.
The year spins around and I've got to have one, a birthday, a token click of counting, a reflection or accounting of period passing and of survival.
But to 'celebrate' a birthday every single year, rings hollow. To celebrate 'me' this frequently seems an indulgence.
Why not once a month, like Lovers do when love is new. But not monthly for long for each year, a New Year, a Cup Final, another Christmas; one a year, every year and there's no surprise left and barely time for anticipation.
The D Day Veterans have just had their 65th and I confess to a twinge of annoyance, not at our remembrance of the trauma of a seminal day, but irritation at the number.
65 as a number. 2009 as a year. Neither a decade nor a half-century. There's no punchy zero factor to get misty eyed about - this is no millennium for sure.
What does 65 mean to young soldiers who served and died as soldiers have always died and continue to die in old mens' wars? Obviously the D Day survivors are thinning out, the veterans at youngest are in their 80s, but still, 'why the sixty-fifth anniversary? '
We used to retire at 65, is that it?
In '67, McCartney sang of 64 (When I'm Sixty-four). I guess it scanned. Or, is it a sentiment from a bygone decade where the expectation was that men retired at 65 and their 5 year younger spouses at 60, or: was it a presentiment that by age 65 McCartney would still be working as artists never retire, while none of the rest of us has the least idea whether, or when, or if we will be able to afford to retire at all.