Soul clapping its hands

My birthday. Sixty six. Thinking of W.B.Yeats, 'An aged man is a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, lest soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.' So I shall try to maintain my gusto, not that I feel too aged, thankfully.

And luckily, feeling a bit perkier than of late, and o longer catastrophising about having to abandon the holiday because of some appalling disease. Lorraine brought a cup of tea and presents in bed including a gorgeous handmade leather belt, and a stained glass window made by Adele of the crocodile from Punch and Judy. She'd also got me, on Mum's behalf, some knee pads which will be incredibly useful for scrambling about in the loft and other knee-based activities. Adele and Patrick also gave Lorraine some lovely art pencils and brushes for me.

Many kind birthday messages during the day. Spoke to Mum too, before the big jaunt tomorrow. 

Assorted packing and organising to go away tomorrow.  In the afternoon Beth, James and Enzo called around and we all had a nice family Sunday dinner with roast pork and roasties. Lorraine made me a gorgeous Beth gave got art-related presents, and a tea cup with world's best grandpa written on it, which I loved, and two useful bottles of Long Man Old Ale. I had a very cheery day. 

To bed early, ready for a hideous o'clock start.