Al and Dilly’s baby is due the week after next. We have said that we will take care of Squiffany while she is in hospital, as Al will want to be there of course. He has put up a sign in the shop, to apologise in advance if he has to close at short notice – he has staff in the morning but is alone in the afternoon. The sign has a photo of the baby scan; infant is curled up in the usual foetal position. In its little hand it clutches a banana.
Poor Dilly, I don’t know how she puts up with Al.
I have just checked my diary for that week. It is rather full, mostly of social commitments, which I can, of course, cancel but which I certainly can’t take a toddler to. It would be much more convenient if the grandbaby arrives next week instead. Or not until after the 24th.
Tomorrow it is my own birthday. Ooh, that’s exciting. Squiffany can sing ‘Happy Birthday’. None of the other words, but she can manage the essential ones.
I do appreciate an interesting number. A square is particularly good. I’m not due for another of those for some time but then, of course, it will be both a square and a cube. This year’s number is not particularly noteworthy except for one detail; that is, my age will be the same number as the final two digits of the year in which I was born.