Fuck. How does it get so late?A quick thank you rattle, then, like a tiny train.
That cat's languorousness. Its sloth. Less so its attacky tendencies, but it's all part of the same cat. Gangster cat. Godfather cat. Emperor.
Brockwell Lido. Just getting my relatively warm arse down there and into the very cold water. Thanks for the community of ladies (aah, mixed swimming - best of both worlds? I love the Ladies' Pond, and I love sharing the pool with people, not just one flavour of people). You still get that communal femaleness in the changing rooms. And Caroline, you complete stranger, you, thank you for lending me your neoprene gloves and socks, thus saving me hand and foot death and allowing me to stay in longer. And finally, for the acceptance that though the ponds delight me in their beauty and natural richness, an outdoor pool has other things to offer - like doing actual lengths (which, with a cap and some goggles, is totally possible, but such a waste in the ponds). And there are LOTS in London.
The Rail Replacement Bus that took my bike on it, thus saving me about an hour, I reckon. That could have been quite some trek, and a bad road to cycle on too (fast, narrow). Dilly, for lovely chat, Our Face, from afar, for a poetry book, Rob, for wisdom and sense and mind-opening finger-tapping. And for pictures of goats on top of stuff. And that pear.
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