I will get to Tartuffe, (1664), Molière's play, one of the productions at the Stratford Festival Theatre this past summer. To my mind, it was the best of the summer crop, and that was a very good thing because it took my mind off my personal pain.

For some reason my sciatica, about which I am in constant denial, flared up worse than I have ever experienced, in my right leg, from hip to ankle. I had trouble limping to the pool in the morning and did not swim my full half hour. I took pills to get through the day: a lot of sitting in the car to and from Stratford and, of course, the play. That's major; I do not take pills. I had some in the cabinet, dating from my leg trauma two years ago when I fell and ripped open my left leg below the knee, to the bone - thirty- three stitches on the outside, I don't know how many on the inside, and four different courses of antibiotics to beat the infection. I took three pills, each one lasting 6 hours, to get through the day. Tartuffe also helped with the pain.

But the next day I was tired, very very tired, still limping but a little more limber. Today, on the third day, I'm walking very well and I went for a brisk walk to prove it, as brisk as I can be, that is. And that's when I realised, no - acknowledged - another lesson learned in this new country I find myself in, the country of old age ("from whose bourne no traveller returns".) I'm in uncharted territory now and I guess this should be the ongoing theme of my blog, going where few people have gone before. More and more of us are there now, though, leading the way. Here's a bulletin: you'll get tired, more tired and more often than you have been before. Guess you never knew that.

I read that there are more people over the age of 65 alive today than existed in all of recorded history. The evidence is all around us. A few years ago it was hard to find a birthday card for anyone over 60. Last week I found four for 90-year-olds. We're all getting' there. So: blog yesterday and blog today and Tartuffe tomorrow.