Happy Birthday, Lucas

How time flies. That’s not the first time I’ve bandied the cliché about on these pages and it undoubtedly won’t be the last, but that’s due as much to the essential truth of the maxim as it is my lazy amateur journalism.

Lucas, my boy, is two years old. Hard to believe that it was two whole years ago that he was born, an event that coincided, you may recall, with the discovery that my own father wished to establish contact after more than forty years of involuntary separation.

The sands of time continue to slip grain by grain through my fingers.

I’ve made a big effort this week and managed to get the photos of our recent Egyptian holiday sorted, captioned and published. There are some great shots there, mixed in, no doubt to the casual browser’s chagrin, with a lot of duff ones. The reason we don’t delete a lot of the perhaps inexplicable crud is that they have a purpose beyond their aesthetic merit: they will serve to jog our failing memory in years to come.

Sarah’s folks arrive tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be curious to see whether the spectacularly fortuitous weather they always enjoy during their spring trip will spontaneously manifest this year, too, given the earliness of their arrival this time. They usually come in May. One can but hope.

I’m back on the cross-trainer after more than a month off. Regaining my rhythm is proving difficult, and my workouts are surprisingly tiring. I attribute this more to the amount of time I’ve spent away from proper exercise than I do to my recent sickness.

The Egyptian trip actually didn’t do too much damage, thanks to the heat and the fact that I didn’t really overindulge myself. I’m still under 80 kilos, but I could do with shedding a couple again.

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