It's still only the 18th here, which is why you've not yet had all the cyberchampagne, cyberchoccies, cyberstripograms, etc.

But Hap-Hap-Happy Birthday, y'old sod. Hugs and love from the human cesspit that men call Hewitt, New Jersey.

And to Bogna too.

Thank you. Love and Big Hugs from the two of us.
What do women call Hewitt, New Jersey, by the way?

"What do women call Hewitt, New Jersey, by the way?"

"Sir."

No they don't. Do they?

"but then again I'm not there yet *smug*"

Bloody kids!

Years ago, towards the end of a UK Milford (week-long f/sf writers' conference), Neil Gaiman pointed out the curious fact that all of us there were the same age. This was not literally true, of course; but we all instantly knew what he meant. We went round the group and, as far as I can recall, the chronological ages ranged from Liz Sourbutt and/or Eric Brown, who was/were about 19 or 20, through to Diana Wynne Jones, who must then have been in her . . . well, she was older than Liz and Eric, anyway. What Neil said aloud was that, during the just-under-a-week we'd all been cheek-to-jowl, age differences had evaporated.

One of the advantages of the internet, I think, is that this same process occurs. Obviously in some instances one works out pretty damn' fast that the person one's talking to is an adolescent; but for the most part there's no such thing as age. (Also, of course, this is one of the great disadvantages of the 'net, because of the ghastly people who on occasion exploit it.)

What horrifies me is that I hadn't realized hutch0 was barely out of his teens. I'd thought he was at least 50, albeit with a glamorous, much younger wife.

Now I discover it's just that the years have been unkind to him.

I know what you mean about the advantages of the net. We all have wildly differing life experiences, but we all share similar cultural references, all have roughly the same sense of humour and roughly the same political orientation, and I always just assume everyone is roughly my age.

Bogna's actually a year older than me. She used to call me her Toy Boy, but when she looks at the grizzled old wreck I've become these days I think she realises it doesn't reflect terribly well on her, so she doesn't call me it any more.

Yes, the years have been unkind. I was such a beautiful youth, too. *sigh*

Some people advocate living hard, dying young, and leaving a good looking corpse. I say live as well as you can for as long as you can, and try to leave a corpse that looks like Dorian Gray's portrait. That way, when the morticians see you, they'll think "Damn, that guy must have really lived!"

You call it being a 'grizzled wreck', I call it 'character', so to me it's merely evidence of having led an interesting life :-)

Anyway, hope you had a happy birthday old chap, and here's wishing you many more.

My intention is to live carefully and not leave a corpse at all. Unfortunately, as I smoke, drink, crave red meat like it's going out of fashion, and live in London, I suspect that's not how this story will end.

Bless you for describing it as `character,' but I'm afraid it really is `grizzled wreck.' And I have had the dullest life you can imagine. God only knows what I'd look like now if it had been interesting...

But thanks, I appreciate the sentiments. I had a quiet birthday with friends, which is how I like it.

Happy, happy birthday {{{{hutch0}}}}}! And 47's good. Honest. That was the year I danced barefoot onstage at a Starship concert. In a sarong--and nobody wanted me to leave the stage.
Happy birthday hugs and a magnum of cyber-champagne,
Jean Marie

"That was the year I danced barefoot onstage at a Starship concert. In a sarong--and nobody wanted me to leave the stage."

I remember all too clearly the tale of the sarong. And where precisely did it land after you threw it?

You'll have to ask Greg. ;-)
Hugs and grins,
Jean Marie

"You'll have to ask Greg."

I did.

Bless you, Jean Marie. The cyber-champagne was mighty nice. Vintage, too.
I have never danced in a sarong, but I'm told it doesn't matter so long as you have a sarong in your heart.

so long as you have a sarong in your heart

Something like "Sarong Way to Tipperary", perhaps?

I was thinking more `Sarong, Sarong, `Ooh's yer lady friend...'
Oh we had such fun in the trenches...

Interesting that JM is keeping well out of this, isn't it?

Two Brits punning on First World War songs? Oh yes, it's a mystery all right...

Happy Birthday Hutch! Just think 3 more years and you will be where I am.

"3 more years and you will be where I am"

Huh?

The post was meant to indicate that Hutch will be in his 50s - just like us.

Thank you, Pam. I will dwell on that for the next three years. ;-)