It’s the 20th of February, the day before my ninety-second birthday, and I am trying to survive a surfeit of celebration—consuming too much—including lunch tomorrow when my granddaughter will be taking me out to eat and drink more.

This morning, my older son took me and my younger son back to his home where he and his wife gave us an Icelandic brunch: gravad lax, which he made, and steak tartare which he made, with a dill- honey mustard ,which he made. and good breads and salad, plus Tuborg beer—no Brennevin (only available in Iceland) or Akvavit. I have mixed but weak emotions about that omission made for our health’s and diet’s sakes. After a brief but inadequate respite, we had champagne and birthday cake with two candles: one for Matt’s birthday two weeks ago and one for mine tomorrow. I swam this morning and I’ve had a nap and I will lie around and try to think useful thoughts until my next pig-out tomorrow.

Too much of a muchness.

This is not a blog, it’s a blow-out. If I recover enough to write something worthwhile you’ll hear from me again today.

Bu t I doubt it.