Sweethearts, pass me a handkerchief. It doesn’t need to be starched, only clean.
Come to think of it, and to take attention away from what is really on my mind and shouldn’t tell you anyway: Wasn’t it lovely when people still carried handkerchieves? I am sure it’s one of the reasons I like “Gone with the Wind”. Clark Gable (what did I see in him?) passing that conniving Vivien Leigh his pristine hanky. Oh the romance of that gesture! Since all of you are too old to bother watching that film again you will never know whether I have just made up that scene or not. Just remember to carry something (preferably white) when you meet me. I may graze my knee. Or get shot (in the foot).
Yes. Insert sigh. Now it’s all tissues. Paper. Disposable. Commendable and most hygienic. Yet you can’t make a knot into a piece of tissue. It’ll tear. Admittedly, unless clumsy, a long string of toilet paper will let you make a knot. But then: Who carries a roll of toilet paper with them? I don’t. Other than when on holiday on Corsica. My sweet and tiny grandmother used to make knots in her (lacy, white) handkerchief when she wanted to remember something. No Filofax or iPod in those days. It puzzled me. Greatly. How can looking at a knot you made earlier that day or ten ago possibly jog your memory? I still don’t know. And I smell a rat even before I see it.
Off to do some ironing. No, not handkerchieves. Toiletpaper.
Feeling better now. Hugs and kisses,