Men, dear reader, are supposed to be allotted three score years and ten before they shuffle off their mortal coil. Maybe four score or more if they play their cards judiciously. That doesn’t sound too bad.  It’s a fair old innings, as we say in England. 70 years I could live with, pun intended. 70 christmases, 70 birthdays, 70 Wimbledons, it’s not too bad.

It’s only when you think of it in terms of months that it doesn’t seem very long that we get to rent a cubic metre of space on the planet. 840 months is not very long at all.

A month can go past in what seems like the blink of an eye. And what have we achieved since the beginning of the month? Not much I bet. And suddenly there goes another one.

Time marches on relentlessly, and thinking about our lifespan in terms of months helps us to not waste a single day if we can help it.

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