Sycamore Fever

monday night, and I’m all merangued out.
Jim cooked a meatball pasta sauce that was enjoyed by three generations of female Barnett’s. we then tucked into Eton mess my way. fruit, cream, merangues and more cream, icing sugar and a little cream…. The Eton Mess was eaten messily..
I’ve taken the youngest one home. Tomorrow the oldest is 87 whilst the middling one is feeling every bit her age.
The bloomin Sycamore spores and flower pollen had me sneezing, wheezing and spluttering all the way through Battersea and St. james Parks.
Just when I thought it was safe to go back near the water I slipped over outside Buckingham Palace. I grazed my knee like an 8 year old who had fallen off their bike, the tourists gasped as I was helped up by a copper PC7102. Thank you to a very lovely man. he retrieved my lipstick and my little pen and sent me on my way.
I cried all the way to the bank on the Mall. Saturating my one little tissue with hot, humiliated tears.
Considering I was in pieces the show hung together better than I could have hoped.
I talked with BONNIE ODDIE, a choreographer and a delight, and a 75 year old American comedienne LYNN RUTH MILLER, who writes novels, paints pictures and helps with Holocaust survivors, she made me feel like a spring chicken and reminded me that ‘out there’ people really are very nice.
I believe she is correct.
Good night until tomorrow.