It’s my daughter’s birthday tomorrow.
Which means that in a week I’ll be 71.
I was there at her birth.
It was an honour.
The midwife – Fabienne – passed me the scissors and invited me to cut the cord.
It was a privilege.
A responsibility.
A sacred moment that still resonates thirty-one years later.
I saw her yesterday.
Once again she renewed my day.
Two days previously I asked her to rate her own out of ten.
“Five,” she replied.
Yesterday I repeated the question.
“Seven, eight,” she replied.
You gotta admit it’s getting better, getting better all the time.
Life, you gotta love it.
I love her.
All, all the best.
Everything.
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