how is everything in heaven? Tweet

bob bob ricard breakfast, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Pure milk and honey, even if I don't get to tell the story often enough. I've seen the queen! She's seen me, too. I waved, she didn't. Then, my attention to cheeky squirrels, a cannon fired at Whitehall knocked my shoes off. Turns out it was Poppy Day. I have videos and all, and still think I'm gonna get round to publishing them before Christmas. Hope dies last. In the meantime, gardening went to hell. My plants outside are dying from too much water. The proto-garden inside—from too little. I cook now and then, more for survival than pleasure. But, hey, I'm a project manager again, and that, just like stabbing needles in my eyes, is a great cause for excitement. More so since the skills are there, and employing them is successful. Less successful at wishing my dad happy name day—though less than a week late on that front, with a little help from friends. I'm out of cigarettes more often than not, and nearly out of lighters. But we've been to Bob Bob Ricard four times in a month—does it matter it was only at the oddest hours? The breakfast above was taken as a brunch when others came in for lunch, in a day otherwise void of breakfast and lunch. And I'm just jumping in some clothes of sort to catch a glimpse of the London Jazz Festival. A star, that's what I am. A big glowing star with no time no pluck her eyebrows or pay her bills. Hang in there, the best is yet to come.