Aunty Becky’s whapsidoodles.

The cottage is gleaming due to my new treasure Caro. I haven’t seen it yet, and I won’t until next weekend.
My garden is overgrown owing to the fact that Anna has swine flu. We wish her well.
My left nostril is blocked.
My bank balance is not as bad as that but worse than the other.
B is working in HMV, has no time for anything accept making the blasted shilling.
Jim is coughing up the tar that has coated his lungs for the last 50 years of smoking. We have more bronchial preparations than Super Drug.
The old git went for an interview on Friday for ‘The Three Sisters’ at the Lyric in Hammersmith…

They liked him, he liked them, he coughed his way out onto Kings Street and starts work a week Monday. The ‘oosbind is slowly snapping up every old retainer in the Ibsen, Chekov canon.
This morning we left for the Kings Road and have just returned with gifts for the middle daughter, it’s her birthday tomorrow, gifts for ouselves -well why not – and a bag full of meat and bagels for tomorrows breakfast feast.
Zoe, Corin and the kid have just arrived, we’re baby sitting Maia whilst the two big babies go out and give it large in Clapham.
I like the cold weather, and I like the fact that we are having a breakfast party, I like the fact that the river is flowing and that Jim has a job. I like the fact that we are here in the flat but really I wish the cottage were the flat and that London was East Sussex and that my piano, garden and pussy cat were here with me in Battersea.
If Aunty Becky had whapsidoodles she would be Uncle Becky. I rest my case….

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