Intimations of mortality

Wordsworth might have had his intimations of immortality but for the Old Bat and me the opposite has been the case.  A couple of days before we left for France, we received the news that one of the OB's oldest friends had died.  The funeral is to be on Friday after we return so we will at least manage to be there.

When we were first married all those years ago - getting on now for half a century! - there was a group of six young ladies who kept alive a friendship formed at school and, chiefly, at Guides.  They met regularly, one evening a month, taking it in turns to host the "girls' night", those girls' nights generally lasting until the early hours.  Through marriage, childbirth, in one case divorce and later remarriage (which is a story all on its own), the meetings continued.  One of the girls moved away.  She didn't drive but once or twice a year her husband would drive her down to Brighton and she would spend the night with us so the girls could all get together again.

Then, about five years ago, one died.  An embolism, I think.

Two years ago a second developed a brain tumour and died.

Now a third member of that group has died - again, a tumour.

I don't know the figures for life expectancy in this country for women born in the 1940s, but I do find it quite surprising that all three died in their 60s.  I think 68 was the oldest.

It makes me think.