So I was walking through Embankment Gardens today, as is my morning routine, chanting ‘ohmmmmmm’ to myself, enjoying the gorgeous flowers, the wonderful statues, verdant lawns and parade of winos hitting the Tenants Extra at 9.15, (well, this is London, not the Garden of fucking Eden), when I was faced with an unusual situation, the protocols for which I was unfamiliar. And it gave me great(ish) consternation.
I walk fast. I’ve been in a hurry for 62 years and still haven’t got anywhere, but that’s another debate. I live in ‘fast’ mode. I’m not saying I’m the fastest walker in town, because we’re all lost souls rushing about without purpose round here, but I don’t hang around. People overtake me, I only rarely try and trip them up. Its not a competitive thing. Usually. But today as I ambled through minding my own business I suddenly felt a wave of dissonance well up. Something was ‘wrong’. Didn’t feel right. Didn’t fit with the norm. Then I realised what it was. I was about to overtake a jogger. Sorry, I was about to overtake a jogger!!!!! (give it the drama it demands).
But what are the protocols? Would such an act cause her embarassment? Would it make her cry? That an old grey git can stroll faster than she (on the evidence available) can run?? Or do I just stop! Or slow down and give her a bit of a lead so as to defer the problem? Give her running lessons? I mean Mo Farrer and Usain Bolt had to start somewhere, didn’t they? And here I was, dawdling behind the world’s slowest jogger. Advice please.
Meanwhile the 2nd (by some way) most important European final is being played tonight. In Baku. Azerbaijan, if you haven’t been there. And most people haven’t. Mainly because it is such a fuck of a journey. But that’s the ‘beauty’ of UEFA. That they set the venue for these finals before the tournaments have even started. So either; some dude at UEFA thought: I know, the good people of Azerbaijan (not that banker’s wife who has spent 14 million quid of the money her hubby stole from the state bank there, but good people) would love to have a football final on their doorstep. Even if: that doorstep is on the other side of the planet, it has no direct flights, takes 4 days of planes, trains and buses to get there. And then you have to come home again. Or that dude thought: ‘hmmmmm, 500k in used notes in a brown paper bag… ‘THE WINNER IS AZERBAIJAN”.
2 London teams, albeit not very good ones, going all the way so one of them can lose. My heart bleeds. Oh, I don’t have one. Forgot.
Happy Wednesday
A xxxx
First and foremost, your Kev. Is that going to be his real name,or are you keeping it a secret until the Brith? All the best for that, by the way and many more Mazal Tovs. Personally, I’m not a lover of them. I know they mean a commitment to the good Lord above, who is, we are told, kind,loving, peaceful and all things good. And beautiful. Why then, I I always wonder ,does a week old tiny, innocent new born boy-babe have to suffer this barbaric ritual. I am sure the good Lord above didn’t ask for it. The Rabbis and Dayanim thought it up in the very olden days. I nearly rebelled when my sons had to go through it. However, the y lived. I nursed them all day following and 24 hours later, pain subsided. Breast feeding helped too, but if not, a bottle and plenty of careful cuddles. It’s painful when they wee, and they wee a lot.
Kev looks so peaceful In His little crib. I imagine he’s a content d little soul even though he probably feeds every few hours. It’s worth it! Also I have been told that circumcision stops cancer of the penis. That must be good.
Love to Lila whom I imagine is very curious about her baby brother.
I have nothing to add about football or your logger. l love Lila and Kev!
Happy days
Shirley H xxxx