I made an observation of some consequence while sitting in
the bath tonight. There I was, having my usual imaginary conversation with a Philadelphian
of Some Distinction, when I noticed how amusingly stunted one’s toes look when
one’s feet are under water.
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Sarah’s mother waved to me from the kitchen window this
afternoon, and smiled. Nicely. This would seem to indicate that I have miscast
the dear woman, to my irredeemable shame. Far from being the Queen of Narnia, I’m
now inclined to place her in the position of Aunt Em, which means that M’Lady S
should be wearing gingham frocks, and the little princess should be renamed
Dodo (since Americans from Kansas appear to have difficulty pronouncing their T’s
as the rest of us do.)
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It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’m hoping the Red Renault
will be on form because I have a visit booked to meet Helen for coffee in Derby.
There was a time when I looked forward to a birthday for weeks. Now it crosses
my mind occasionally, and is immediately relinquished as a matter of no import.
Birthdays are inevitable; what I look forward to now is the unattainable.
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