I’d like to report a crime. Someone stole the past fortnight of my life. One minute it was September 17th and I was casually throwing a few items in a suitcase for a trip to Ireland. The next thing I knew my most recent blog was two weeks old which, let’s face it, in terms of blog-topicality might as well date from the last century.
What happened? Well, aside from eating a lot of smoked salmon and driving around County Dublin looking for a new home, I do remember catching a bumpy flight back to the humid Indian summer of Venice. I also know two of my grandchildren have been to stay. The clues, not hard to follow, are the little jars of sieved apple sitting in my fridge and the foldaway baby cots that refused to fold away last night. It was just Granny Fatigue kicking in. There is a very good reason why 62 year olds can’t have and absolutely shouldn’t have babies.
This morning, refreshed, I crept up on the cots and they folded without a murmur. Which means all I have to deal with now is: one out-of-shape novel, one endlessly morphing amateur pantomime (my White Rabbit just moved to Puglia without telling me), and one house move. In my spare time I intend solving the mystery of what happened to September.
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