Being wedged between two of my desks (yes, I do have several, don’t ask) on this fine summer’s day I take a break. For light relief looking at one of my bookshelves without so much as getting up from my chair. That’s the trouble with high temperatures. First you crave them, then they render you inert.
One of the first outcomes of years creeping up on me, and – for reasons unknown – my ever growing fear of a blood clot forming somewhere in my body resulting in a much anticipated aneurysm, I will dwell on how to make my eventual demise easier on the Angel. So I let my gaze (see above bookshelves) fall upon a no doubt worthy book called “Now that we are Sixty”. I bought this about ten years ago. What possessed me I can only speculate on: The vintage dust cover?
So, having flicked through it once more, it has been binned. Yes, I know it’s sacrilege to bin books. At least I don’t burn them. Though the latter might be kinder than imagining landfill. And before any of you tell me about “recycling”, don’t. I am the queen of recycling. However, sometimes you don’t want to inflict your rubbish on anyone else.
Hugs and hisses,