From Berwick Street to Borehamwood.

The daughter put her hand on my shoulder at 7.30 this morning, I had actually been up but had fallen back to sleep, she jiggled me awake.
I put on the same clothes as yesterday, packed a little shoulder bag and went down to the garage to pick up Nellie.
I unlocked the postbox on route. A bill, so I thought, from BT, the relief when it was just one of those letters that starts to tell you how much you can save for family and friends if you play Twister on a Monday , eat fried beans on Tuesday and share a mobile with a mobster in Streatham on the last Friday of every month. I didn’t get beyond the fourth line.
Drove the car out into the morning sunshine by which time B appeared on the stairs.

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19.34. Football, tennis, meetings, chat. taxis, heat, almonds, silence.
Worra a day this has been, it was a heavy show I got so angry about factory farming. We are, if we’re not careful, going to turn into the dustbin of Europe. It’s as if the Great British public are letting the fat cats poop on us from a very great height.
It is not their God given right to mystify us, confuse us, screw us and then let us pick up the pieces.
If factory farming is allowed to happen on our tiny, little Island we will only have ourselves to blame.

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Ten Days That Shook My World

First of all let me say thank you for your messages.
I AM FINE. Although the last ten days have been more than a little testing
It’s been mechanical mash up, daughter mash up, emotional mash up, not to mention the old git’s absence which didn’t help.
Tonight, at 21.22, B is watching big Brother, her friend Shabby is in it, the only reason for watching such a pile of pooh.
The french doors are open and we are being invaded by green flies from the river, the dishes need washing, the rugs need hoovering, the basket of ironing is staring at me all creased and needy. But I did wash the dirty sheets and towels.
Its amazing how one 23 year old daughter can make so much mess just by breathing….
Anyway I’ve hung out the wet laundry on the clothes horse on the balcony am about to water the herbs and window boxes but have resisted tidying away B’s dog-ends from the balcony table, because they stink…
Actually finally everything feels like its getting back to normal. The ‘oosbind is back on Sunday and B’s back is mending nicely thanks to Naval the genius cranial osteopath and Monica my acupuncturist. 14 needles later and a lot of Naval osteopathy and she’s not listing to the left like a drunken midshipman..
But it feels like something is in the air, earlier, as I climbed out of my taxi from Oxford Street, I was accosted by my upstairs neighbour.

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With a little help from my friends.

Yes, Rhiannon, St. Nicholas’s Church is still functioning as a church. Yes Adrian, you naked on a bike feels me with dread!! I have had a very emotional weekend. what with one thing and another. Today I mowed the lawn, hoovered the cottage, hung the washing out on the line, in the sun, then drove … Read more

A ceremony of civility

It’s Tuesday. The old git is in Ireland, it’s tipping it down and he’s performing in the open air at Trinity College in Dublin.
Last night they had to put plastic bags in their shoes – 16th century garb I may add, and still his little feet got soaked. Sloshing around giving his iambic pentameter.
He skyped me last night. he, sitting in the howsyourfather, in his hotel room and me sitting in my howsyourmother in the flat. We blew each other a kiss and I went back to bed, where I had been since lunchtime.
I blame Civil Ceremonies, daughters, actors and insomnia.

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