When I realise, at 8.30pm, that I am diaryless, I suddenly feel totally and hopelessly lost. That's a feeling not unlike someone just threw me off a tall building, lopped off both my arms and plunged my face in vinegar pickle.
Fortunately, Richard Gere* has been running this workshop, and I have his telephone number stashed in my mobile. He rescues my diary, saves my sanity, and delivers back to me this forthcoming week. I may now have to fall madly in love with him.
And with these glorious green spaces.
* He just seems to me to bear an uncanny resemblance.
4 comments:
I would like to lose my diary and have Richard Gere come to my rescue. Why do all the fun things always happen to you? Do you just happen to hang out at the right fields? Or do you have connections? Maybe you could drop my name. I'm damn near very attractive and single.
Surely you wouldn't dump Dig in favour of Richard?
All that sauveness would get on my nerves after a while, I tell myself.
Evening drama? Nice!
irene, my most dashing rescue once came with a young handsome driving full pelt towards us in a jeep. fortunately he stopped before he ran us over, and declared he was there to take us to safety. i just about swooned. but the fields of england are crawling with eccentrics. people see these fields from their cars and think they are merely pretty. they barely consider thye drama going on behind those hedges.
i suppose kelly that a tryst with dig in a field would be best of all. a tryst with dig anywhere, really.
michelle, i was wondering if i'd bump into you there. we'll let you know how it goes for next year.
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