Old age can be nasty

Ah, old age, you're a real nasty piece of work, but not much can be done about it.

I had a big fall on the cement walk outside of my apartment, and while I lay there offering samples of the sore parts of my anatomy to the waiting ambulance crew, I hear the voice of my son coming to visit me and saying “looks like she’s gone”; in other words “the old girl’s packed it in”!

I admit the whole scene was a farewell, complete with copious amounts of my blood (blue, of course) running from my head.  He seemed annoyed when some of my vital body parts started to move.

I admit that my writing’s pretty bad today, but never mind, Margaret at the newspaper will decipher it better than I can.

Needless to say, I’m back on my pins again, with assorted aches and pains to prove it.  The lump on my head is taking a long while to heal, hence the gibberish herewith, but I do have a little manure (human, that is) for my not so flourishing garden.

Ah, old age, you’re a real nasty piece of work, but there’s not much that can be done with it.