Child watching is supposed to keep us grandmothers young. If this is true, and I suspect it is really a Big Fat Lie, then why is it that all my bones ever want to do at the end of the day is pile up in a heap in some quiet corner? And why, at noon, do I crave a gin? Every day.
And why is it that I don’t rise sylph like from the floor after a session of playing cars or trains or whatever. Instead, this rising gets uglier and uglier, and needs more and more leverage. If I actually succumbed to the gin, I could understand this difficulty with rising, but I have restraint. (more…)