It was my birthday this week, and a huge thank you to all the people who sent me ‘have a happy day’ wishes. (It was, except for car which simply refused to start. But then I can hardly complain about purchasing a new battery, the first in 7 years).
One of the messages I received was from my cousin who pointed out that Facebook was kindly telling the whole world just how old I am. She was even kinder in listing the steps I needed to take to remove this piece of incriminating evidence. So in a spare millisecond, I popped into the settings bit and attempted to remove the offending information. I mean, how can I pretend to be 25 if Facebook is screaming the truth to the whole world?
It wouldn’t let me! Seriously! I tried everything, but either I have no birthday at all, or I have to accept the inevitable. It may be because I am listed as an author, a sort of one man/woman international corporation, but it stands.
Does it really matter? Well probably not. I can’t expect to write biographies spanning 60 years and get people to believe I’m still in the bloom of youth, but what it does do, is allow Facebook to tailor their advertisements within my age bracket.
So far, in the last two days, they have offered me walking aids, mobility scooters and one of those nifty chair things that will take you upstairs – their research here is woefully lacking as all our accommodation is on one level. So thank you Facebook for making me feel even older and placing me in an age bracket that will remind me that I’m approaching senility at a rate of knots. I’m now just waiting for the adds for the incontinence pants, hearing aids and old folks homes.
I don’t think I’ll have a birthday next year.
Latest update on Amie 2 is that we ordered the first proof copy this morning, which should arrive next Thursday, so publication date is getting nearer. Watch this space.
Other update is that I have a Kindle Countdown on Truth, Lies and Propaganda from 5-11 September, reduced to $/£ 0.99. Here are the links should you wish to purchase.
Enough of this modern stuff as we whisk back a few hundred years to find out what happened after Oliver went to the big battleground in the sky. He, as all good dictators do (those who scream they are bringing democracy to the people), was succeeded by his son. But, poor lad, he only lasted 9 months and Richard Cromwell begged what was let of parliament to bring back the king.
Now Charles, named after his daddy who, you may remember was also called Charles, had been in exile for 9 years, staying with a variety of relatives and wealthy friends on the continent.
Charles II (to distinguish him from daddy, who was Charles I) came back to a tumultuous reception and so got the nickname of ‘The Merry Monarch’. He was merry, not surprising as he got his throne back, along with a few nice houses, castles and palaces to live in, and the people were merry as well, as they could now knit on a Sunday.
He arrived in London on his birthday, and being given a country to rule must be among the nicest birthday presents anyone could have.
Even Beckham hasn’t managed that.
Till next time.