buffdays

I'm not sure how many I've got left, one never is, blessed be my unknown future, never realised how many Ns there are in unknown. Started off by having a lie in, clock in bedroom needs new battery( I feel for it). Then a man called for the key for next door, Irish peoples holiday home, giving it an early Spring clean. Obi the Dobi bit him, broke skin, drew blood, drip,drip, and he burgered orft. This sort of thing is not good anywhere, but in La Republique Francaise, it can mean having the gendarmes carting off your doggie, and placing said doggie on doggie death row, OUCH! I've not been bit, 'twas the sound of my stoney old heart dropping onto my boots, hurt my foot. He eventually returned my not quite frantic phone call, he'd been to the medic, got a tetyanus shot, and had been patched up, no gendarmes required. Heart jumped back into place. Tom and Rikki called to have a drink to celebrate the joyous event, my buffday, remember! I do so like them, always really happy to see them. And so ends the saga of my buffday at year soixante-huit, 68 in English. I sincerely hope I will write something for year 69.