I like the sharp. I am particularly keen on men in that regard. I do not wish them unkind, not at all. Sharp. For instance, John of Welsh welfare to all that is feathered or a goat does come across – to the unobservant reader – as St Francis. Not so. He is St Francis. Yes. But, by golly, read between the lines. Dear dog in heaven. And that includes Winnie.
That’s the trouble with today’s world: Our attention span doesn’t stretch as far as a chewing gum. Attention to detail. Nuances. Damn it, if this ‘phase’ as the Angel calls it goes on I won’t recognize myself any longer. Where were we: Sharp. It’s incredible. Not so incredible as to fall in love again. But still good.Yes. Maybe I should get out more. Paris. Still, you can be in your world without so much as setting a foot out of the door. Never mind catching a plane.
I have always preferred my car to other transport. A car will not leave the minute you are unavoidably detained, still packing the sink and finding someone to look after the cats. A car is patient. Till you start it. There was one time I started but the thought of my family (eight hours away) made me sick. According to my doctor I saw the next day. So I turned round and unpacked. That was the beginning of what ended in failure. Have promised the Angel to retrieve remnants of my old energetic self and take off once more.
Brill. Can’t wait. Wish me something. Luck. Feathers. Anything. Not too close to the sun.