Day 160 - Overripe

Like this, but in a British pond.

I am grateful, daily, daily. I really am. 


Hazy promises of a beautiful day this morning. A thickness to the air. Gentle reflections of water on tree trunks, moving at different paces in different parts of the pond. New shoots. Green reeds among the beige dead grasses of the winter. 


In the men's pond, a man doing headstands on a surfboard. I saw him do three. I stopped and watched. What a show-off, but what balance! I'd have watched for longer, but I had a call to get to (postponed by the time I got home, but no harm done). A new company wanting role-play and facilitation in other languages. Good, good. I need to find a way of packing a transit case.


Inspiring talk with Amanda Dormon - writer of many kinds, very funny woman and all round excellent egg. I felt all possible after our meeting. She's doing good things. I was reminded to be grateful for so many good women in my life. A few good men too, of course, but so, so many more women. Impressive, strong, soft, lovely women who enrich my life with their each one-ness and individual take on things. 

Like this, but in a cafe.

Primrose Hill - a LOT of dog action (better, Sandison? Better?). A pack of them. I petted one and its owner said 'which one's yours?' She looked a little wary when I said 'none of them'. It's how it goes. I miss them, though, so when they're there and willing, you know. It's not weird. I'm a dog-owner without a dog, that's all. I think that dog was a pointer. Tall, s/he was, and lean, with markings like a cow. Outside a cafe, shaggy thing that looked like the Weimaraner/Poodle cross I looked up on the internet the other day. Big hazel eyes and urchinness. Willing to be petted. A great tall thing on the top of Primrose Hill that loped and waited (as did his owner) while I had a ... a moment. Then I patted him and off he went. And a sweet, cock-eared little girl mongrel under a table. Wary, soft-eyed, curious. I liked her. 

Like this, but smaller.

A second-hand chicken. Possibly not the right term. Marked down, for cooking today. I bought it. It has been roasted and has a number of meals written on its bony carcass. Fricasee, curry (with sultanas!), soup. A second-hand book about love. A conversation about second-hand cheese, but no such thing. 


On the way up to Ruth's, a line of tiny Batmen, four of them, in fact, each complete with mask, cape and six-pack/sticky-outy chest. None of them more than three feet high. They all walked like they were the real Batman. Their mothers humoured them. A lone tiny Spiderman, no mask. Pajama-y thanks to that. Bless that little boy. Now I scour my brains, there were fairies too, but I didn't register them. My memory tells me that I had a Spiderman suit, but I suspect it was just very wishful thinking. Never the fairy, always the superhero, as the old adage goes. Speaks reams.

Just like this.

Lovely time with Ruth, doing practical things (involving cables, manuals and little wire ties) and drinking tea. I get to see her three days running. Yesterday at the Hockney, today and tomorrow, for breakfast. And then this. Thanks to facebook and Mr Steve Wheeler. A Russian beatboxer. YESSSS!












http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpfTKTvaN3E&feature=related (skip to 1.40 mins)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyC5xGLbgxw&feature=endscreen&NR=1


Thanks, Kate, for the book you lent me, which is bearing such ripe fruit. Almost fermented, so long they've been sitting on shelves in humid thought cellars, not being brought out till they're past their best. It's amazing what an airing will do, though. We. Shall. See.