Peg's, not mine. Although I feel 98. No, make that 108.
The plan is, so I hear, to hit Tina's the Hairdresser's at 9:00, then off to Home Depot for bird feeders, then Price Chopper for you name it, then to Salmon Run in Lee where The Staff are taking Peg out to lunch. Then home, to accept a Facetime call from Kings in England singing a jolly Happy Birthday around the piano, during which I hope not to cough too much. After which either Bonnie or Terri or Bob will lead Peg onto her Facebook page, where she can see the many birthday wishes from friends and fans, and then view major fan James Lilek's birthday video he made for her for his newspaper in Minneapolis.
As 98th birthdays go, it will be fine.
Jennifer (sort of adopted sister) arrived last Saturday for the night bringing birthday cake and a sweater that's too tight in the sleeves but Peg loves it so will wear it.
On Thanksgiving, in two days time, four gay guys arrive with the full Monty dinner.
I am sorry not to be there, but only sort of. Mostly because I still feel crap and will be starting antibiotics tomorrow and the thought of a plane journey and going deaf with the cabin pressure and then trying to be fun in Becket doesn't do it for me. Still. She's Mama. She rang this morning and I burst into tears.
The big news from this end is that today we got official planning permission to build the Peg house at the bottom of the garden.
The big news for the Becket end is that according to Bonnie, Peg has gone off the idea of moving to England. In fact not just gone off, doesn't want to come, ever. Period.
I guess her plan is to stay there then until she runs out of money for oh, you know, staff, electric bills, food, printer ink and so on and just one day curl up under the duvet and die, by herself, with no one there to even ring and tell me the news.
And I tell you, at the rate the money's flowing out, we're talking April.
I am not sleeping well these days.
And if my son leaves any more sneakers in the front hall, he's out of here.
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