Yesterday we spent time doing comfort cooking: rock cakes, (unfortunately they got a bit overcooked so turned out as the kind of cakes visitors would hide behind cushions to avoid eating them in case they broke teeth,) soup and shepherd's pie (without adding a shepherd).
This last, reminds me of Mason's mother: she had a statuette of an organ grinder with a monkey who was holding out a hat for the money. When visiting her one day, she asked if we had seen her monkey grinder which made Mas and I snicker more than somewhat, until she lost patience with us.
Today I went to Borehamwood, and went window shopping and bought some Frontline spot on to put on Salty later. I saw this poem which I really liked :
Writing a world.
'While I talk and the flies buzz,
a seagull catches a fish at the mouth of the Amazon,
a tree falls in the Adirondak wilderness,
a man sneezes in Germany,
a horse dies in Tattany,
and twins are born in France.
What does that mean? Does the contemporaneity
of these events one with another
and with a million others as disjointed
form a rational bond between them,
and write them into anything
that resembles for us a world.'