Nyel, circa 1944

Half the year Nyel is eight years younger; for the other half it’s only seven.  Either way and try as he might, he’ll never catch up to me.  Unless, of course, I stop having birthdays which I have no intention of doing in the foreseeable future.  I like the thought that I married a younger man.  Someone to take care of me in my declining years, I say.

Sydney, circa 1944

And, as I see it, I’ve been declining for a good long time.  Nyel has kept up his end of this one-sided bargain very well indeed.  As the household’s primary chef (and a world class one at that!) he gives me no cause for complaint at all concerning the cossetted-and-looked-after side of life.   Nor has he ever expressed dissatisfaction with the arrangement.  I consider myself the luckiest woman I know.

Thursday will be his seventy-third.  We long ago decided to only celebrate the birthdays that end with a 0 or a 5, so this one will mostly go un-noted.  Maybe a matinee and dinner across the river if there’s anything worth seeing at the movies.  Besides, Thursday isn’t a very auspicious day for a party.

Two years hence, however, – August 4, 2018 – his big three-quarters-of-a-century mark will fall on a Saturday.   I’m thinking a party and a cruise might be nice…