This is a photoless post because though I got Box Elder's fine instructions (for which many thanks) for reducing photo sizes and have printed these for future use, I feel it's a bit late at night to try anything new. I'm not really good at new things in the technological line. Mr Life has just organised me to join Facebook - well, he did it last thing last night - and I haven't fully grasped what it's about, despite having just finished watching "The Social Network".
In fact, the film has made it all seem somewhat sinister, which it doubtless is in a way. I only want, pathetically, to read Daughter 2's ... um... page (is that the word? or do I mean wall?) to brighten up my life - though she phones more or less every day anyway so it's not as if we're out of touch. I never signed up for Facebook when my offspring were younger so as not to be instrusive but these days, Mr Life's on it (with her permission) and keeps me telling what Daughter 2 has posted so I reckoned that I could join too. I don't think the other two offspring use it much. And I don't think my friends do much either, though I could be wrong. Anyway, doubtless I'll get used to it, though forgetting my password between yesterday and today wasn't a brilliant start. I eventually remembered it.
A nice lady in our church, a lifelong keen cyclist, decided to do a 75-kilometre bike ride to celebrate her 75th birthday and to raise sponsorship money for the church. So she did. That was at the end of June. On Wednesday of last week, she was in a collision with a car when she was cycling and she died of her injuries. It's so sad. But I suppose that, looking at it another way, maybe it's not that sad to die doing something you like, when you're in good health and have led a reasonably long life. Though what is a reasonably long life? I'm sure one's opinion changes as one gets nearer the three score years and... whatever one has in mind.
I'm editor of our church magazine and when I looked in my pigeonhole today there was an article that she'd written a week ago for the next edition, enthusiastically describing where she'd gone on her fundraising excursion.
It's all a bit sobering, this life thing. Meanwhile, Grandson is looking around with his big blue eyes, gazing into our faces and smiling. Or looking indignant. Or tragic. Or hopeful. Don't you love that feeling of being bumped on the cheek by a sweet, soft, blunt little baby face?