The older order changeth, yielding place to new. God fulfills himself in many ways. And soon, I suppose, I shall be swept away by some vulgar little tumour. Oh, my boys, my boys, we're at the end of an age. We live in a land of weather forcasts and breakfasts that set in. Shat on by Tories, shovelled up by Labour. And here we are, we three, perhaps the last island of beauty in the world.Only 65. Not fair.
Complications from heart surgery, apparently.
Edited by localnotail at 19:21:39 29-03-2013
A strange game. The only winning move is not to play.