Saturday 3 July

Well, this must almost be it then. Or is it? I remember my 30th birthday feeling a bit like it. But then watching Growler and Magz tonight splitting the difference of their 60+ years, amongst friends old and new, you suspect that it unquestionably isn’t (or at least not until the morning after). I’m quite convinced that my 40th will feel like it (though Smokeless Uncle Bargreaves recently had his 50th and tells me even that didn’t feel like it – or not much of it anyway). But the going away to America – did I tell you? Well, that feels like it at the moment. A new chapter, a new book; a new mechanical journal to shed light upon that famously underexposed realm (I have a mad fancy to locate this one in the past – perhaps long before the civil war even started over there). But by far and away the most important reason why this feels like it is it is because I began to relate my tales to you as single, lonely (occasionally moany), bachelor-to-the-stars Batson Bargreaves and yesterday Licky Shazhorn accepted my proposal of marriage. I could not be happier.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Batson married off and leaving stage left? What the hell are those left behind meant to do without his fraternal reassurances of ineptitute? Why? How? Noooo!

Let's hope this union is disolved as quickly as it blossomed so our favourite, mundane Victorian bachelor returns, tail wedged firmly up his childed ego, to resume usual service.

Un-be-lieve-able.

Fergus48 said...

Crippinitus Batson, all the best of British to a stalwart character!