Little blue shorts and purple vest thingy, my trainers and a hair clip.
Yesterday I went to my brilliant beautician, who I have been seeing for 23 years, and spent an hour and a half having all my skin tags removed.
First she slathered anesthetic cream all over my face and neck, then I held a metal rod which kept the current going round. Then she pricked me with a sharp little needle and cauterised all me blemishes.
Today I look like a Garibaldi biscuit. I may have mentioned that yesterday.
This morning , wearing my purple ensemble I ironed, and cleaned up before my wonderful cleaner arrived. I wanted her to do things in the kitchen which four baskets of ironing would have prevented.
Anyway ironing is one of those right brain activities which allows thinking. I kept the radio off and mulled over all sorts.
My writing partner.
BBC London.
Voice Overs.
Agism.
Poverty.
Loneliness.
What to cook for supper.
Then I called my nephew – DAN THE MAN – who is so sensible and wise and clear and delicious. By the time I had finished the last duvet cover he had sorted me out.

Then I went for my constitutional.
I ate so much rubbish at Jim’s birthday do that I’m right back on my regime. I cannot afford to let it slip I do not want to EVER go back on diabetic drugs again.
I went down the hill, the air heavy, the tips of the Oak trees just beginning to turn.
Turned right and all the golden barley had been mown. made me want to read Thomas Hardy.
Down my avenue and hug with Mr. B, my beech tree. who quite clearly told me that everything happens for a reason even if it is discomfortable.
To my first blackberry bush. Big and bleby. Sweet and juice. My second blackberry haul was slightly acidic. Which is why they work so well with apples.
Past the million yearold rocks and to the road.
Left or right? I had to make a decision. I decided to go left. The road wide, the smell of sweet pepper in the air. More blackberries. I only took enough to cover me for a few footfalls I felt guilty taking away the birds food.
Across the big road and past another field that had been tended.
Down a steep field and left past the stream. Not as high as it should be. Tress has been felled. It hurt my heart, stumps with their bark ripped. I hope the farmer has a good reason for it.
No other human-being was around, a bird swooped outof a tall tree and whistled such a trill. I’ll have to look it up. delicious high piping song. As I was all alone I could make whatever noises I wanted. When from behind another blackberry bush popped up three children and two grandparents. I had to laugh.
‘Nice day’ said grandpa. ‘Not to warm.’
I raised an arm, preferring to remain silent. I wanted him to think I was foreign. No engagement see.
Then a swift left up the slope, mole hills and saving the best till last, the biggest plumpest, sweetest lackberriesofthemn all. I gorged mysle. My fingers and lips balck.
Walked through a tunnel of