When BH died I planted a rose in his memory. I chose one named Thomas à Becket because BH died on the Archbishop’s Feast Day.
“. . .A commonplace book is what a provident poet cannot subsist without, for this proverbial reason, that ‘great wits have short memories:’ and whereas, on the other hand, poets, being liars by profession, ought to have good memories; to reconcile these, a book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day’s reading or conversation. There you enter not only your own original thoughts, (which, a hundred to one, are few and insignificant) but such of other men as you think fit to make your own, by entering them there. . .”
The “few and insignificant thoughts” are exactly what will be found here in Commonplaces.
Panic, cold sweat, foul language and soft knees. The result of losing a credit card. Quite out of proportion to the loss.
I am not a doggie person unlike the vast majority of my compatriots whom, I suspect, actually prefer their dogs to their children. However, I have recently come across two dogs likely to change my mind.
That’s “Goal!” yelled at full throttle and as long drawn-out as you can hold your breath. Give it a try, preferably in the middle of a field. Or in the pub with your pals when your team scores.
You can’t go wrong with this Lithuanian “side,” even on the hottest day. Teenagers love kugelis; it fills all parts other padding-out foods fail to reach.
After I stopped crying on the way home from Lithuania, I realised that my head was as if I had been working on a jig-saw puzzle for too long.
The time has come and tomorrow the interment will take place. There will be friends gathered from far afield, relations and nearest of kin. I suspect there will be a full house and I fully expect the sun to shine.
The time is fast approaching for me to go again to Lithuania, this time to attend the interment of my beloved husband’s ashes in the church we chose together many years ago.
I never minded flying until I had children. Then in a trice I was smitten with aviophobia. What a boring name that is for the condition.
Classic put-downs are supposedly character-building. I’m sure I’ve put them down myself, probably when making a witticism at someone else’s expense. It takes a toughie to rise above such things, an amnesiac to forget them.