"... whereas I look increasingly like my Aunt Mildred"

Guess what CUPE is giving me for my birthday this year?

They are sending iclysdale to Gander. Isn't that just absobloodylutely LOVELY of them?

Especially as last year they sent him to Vancouver. OK, I managed to go with him, and it was excessively lovely, but this is NOT the point. Or it is not the point at the moment. I WANT MY MONKEY HERE is the point at the moment.

Still. Life could be worse. We had a wonderful day out today and an excellently tasty long talky supper at Caribbean Flavours, with hugs and a shot of good rum from Frederick, and actually I am feeling pretty mellow. Tomorrow I am going out with raynedaze, my Beautiful Wife, and Monday with fajrdrako and auriaephiala.

And angevin2 gave me The Everyman Book of Women Romantic Poets (OK, you people who still see no weirdness in "man" as neutral? You see what that did there?) while I was visiting her, with this one marked with a post-it. Because she loffs me.

THIRTY-EIGHT. ADDRESSED TO MRS. H------Y.

IN early youth's unclouded scene,
The brilliant morning of eighteen,
With health and sprightly joy elate
We gazed on life's enchanting spring ,
Nor thought how quickly time would bring
The mournful period--Thirty-eight.

Then the starch maid, or matron sage,
Already at the sober age,
We view'd with mingled scorn and hate;
In whose sharp words, or sharper face,
With thoughtless mirth we loved to trace
The sad effects of--Thirty-eight.

Till saddening, sickening at the view
We learn'd to dread what Time might do;
And then preferr'd a prayer to Fate
To end our days ere that arrived;
When (power and pleasure long survived)
We met neglect and--Thirty-eight.

But time, in spite of wishes, flies
And Fate our simple prayer denies,
And bids us death's own hour await:
The auburn locks are mix'd with grey,
The transient roses fade away,
But reason comes at--Thirty-eight.

Her voice the anguish contradicts
That dying vanity inflicts;
Her hand new pleasures can create,
For us she opens to the view
Prospects less bright--but far more true,
And bids us smile at--Thirty-eight.

No more shall scandal's breath destroy
The social converse we enjoy
With bard or critic tete a tete;--
O'er youth's bright blooms her blights shall pour,
But spare the improving friendly hour
That science gives to --Thirty-eight.

Stripp'd of their gaudy hues by Truth,
We view the glitt'ring toys of youth,
And blush to think how poor the bait
For which to public scenes we ran
And scorn'd of sober sense the plan
Which gives content at--Thirty-eight.

Though Time's inexorable sway
Has torn the myrtle bands away,
For other wreaths 'tis not too late,
The amaranth's purple glow survives,
And still Minerva's olive lives
On the calm brow of--Thirty-eight.

With eye more steady we engage
To contemplate approaching age,
And life more justly estimate;
With firmer souls, and stronger powers,
With reason, faith, and friendship ours,
We'll not regret the stealing hours
That lead from Thirty--even to Forty-eight.