This, in Bury bus station:
. . . between my wife and I.
Me:”I’ve just picked up a book about Julian of Norwich.”
Me:”You know who Julian was?”
Jen:”Of course I do.”
Jen:”A bloke from years ago. See-I surprise you don’t I? I might not know what he did, but I know he lived years ago. So there!”
Me:”Julian of Norwich was a woman.”
Our bedroom is up in the attic. This morning I came downstairs to find a letter waiting for me on the landing, written by my nine year-old daughter Millie. It began:
‘Just to let you know it’s been a rough night . . . ‘
The memory notifications on Facebook regularly throws up some forgotten gems. Yesterday I saw this, written in a Mother’s Day card by my then seven-year old daughter:
Mummy you are the prettiest, loveliest Mummy who is forty-three. I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t do your shopping when you wouldn’t let me go on Facebook. If you died in September I wouldn’t celebrate this day but I’d say prayers at your graveside.
City Jackdaw has now been flying for four years.
Despite just having to use the smelling salts, his wings aren’t showing signs of tiring just yet 🙂
To all you great people who visit me here in my cyber-roost, be it regular or occasional:
So make that +1.
I used to be a postman. Always late.
I just read this, in a review of Death Of The Poets, by Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts:
‘ . . . as one psychologist is quoted as saying, “being a published poet is more dangerous than being a deep sea diver.” Versifiers are absolute martyrs to anorexia, agoraphobia, epilepsy, dipsomania, manic depression, paranoia, broken hearts and self-slaughter.’
Think it’s time for a career change.