Back to front, this was the second.....

This week, a lovely woman, a new M.P., who lived on a barge and had two small children, one of whom was named after a mountain she had climbed with her husband. This woman who stood up for refugees and the rights of women and for staying in Europe, was murdered.

 I’m sure you know all of this. But it has rocked this country to the core. Campaigning for the referendum was silenced. Parliament went quiet. The front pages of the newspapers carried her smiling face.

Went to the theatre. Saw a play about a couple, two women, one of whom had dementia. Her partner had to choose whether she should have a surgery which would give her back her life but cut out twenty years of her memory which meant their shared life would disappear and her wife would no longer recognize her.

Saw another startling funny play about rehab and recovery. Sat next to Peter Capaldi, the newest Doctor Who. I didn’t let on I knew Who he was.

And aAnother set in 1967 and 1976 on a Greek Island. Two couples, one young and British. One older and American.  A military Coup, the CIA. The role of the invaders;

Political and affluent.

Wine on the South Bank.

.

Cheese from Neal’s Yard. Knickers from Marks and Spencer. Profiteroles from Casanova and Daughters.

Looked at the Birkenstock shop. Was astonished when a shop girl, hawking hand cream, called out to me “ Are you American?” I asked old boyfriend later why she would have said that.

“ I don’t know.” He said. “ you look like a sailor…..I mean, you look streamlined…”

Supper with aforementioned old boyfriend. Boyfriends that can still make you dissolve in laughter. A rare thing, methinks.

A trip down to Wales. From Paddington Station to Glamorganshire.

Where everyone used to work in the coal mines till they closed them down. Or the Port Talbot steelworks. That is where Uncle Gordon says he got his bad lungs. Nowadays, especially if the sun isn’t shining. Which it doesn’t very often…Neath is a whole lot of grey.

The bright light comes from Auntie Connie of the crayon blue eyes and her toy-boy,  Gordon. Her words not mine. In their bungalow, up the Cimla. The hill above Neath.

They were called uppity by my dour relations when they moved up there a couple of decades ago. 93 years apiece.

 Most of their RAF friends gone. Pills in the morning, pills at night.  A bit of cancer and heart problems thrown in. Salad cream and crisps on their lunchtime salad. Cups of strong tea all through the day and the best sense of humour to be found west of the Severn.

“ Let’s hold hands Connie. For the photo.” He said.

“ Well, there you are.” She said

Back at Paddington found the brass band that plays every Friday evening.

Platform 8. Just for the pleasure of it.

The Houses of Parliament, Richard the Lionheart and a mini.

Sunday morning. Sung Eucharist at Westminster Abbey.

 Organ prelude to shake the bones of all those buried Kings.  Young voices higher than the clouds. Light pouring in through circular stained glass windows.  A sermon about Jo Cox and Orlando.

Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve. Will try and find somewhere ancient to stand and watch the last of the light disappear.

Good night from London