Sunday
An old friend from France is staying with us at the moment. He gets up at 7am, every morning. I know, makes no sense to me either. But for some reason I too got out of bed at half past ridiculous this Sunday Morning. Still, for once, I am glad I did. We took the train to Coney Island to take in the bracing sea air on the lonely beach and to fly E’s pink and black trick kite. It made a wonderful ffffrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring noise as it swooped and swirled and almost hit an ignorant seagull. Even with scarves wrapped crazily round our necks and heads like disorientated Bedouin, the wind proved a bit too strong, sneaking upon our poor little patches of exposed skin, especially when it started to whip up a blur of sand and snow, (snow falling on the beach is wonderful yet bewildering in itself). So we took refuge in Nathan’s hotdog shop and contemplated practising for this summer to beat Takeru Kobayashi and to steal the hotdog eating champion record from him, but we settled on a very modest one a piece and some chips, before heading home to warm up with hot tea and a snooze.
What a lovely Sunday. Only marred slightly by some men’s habitual inability to admit they are ever fallible. But, I made a big pasta. The carbs and the sea air put them to sleep and peace reigned once more.
Today was also the tribute concert for Wiz in London. I wished for once that I could split myself in two.
What a lovely Sunday. Only marred slightly by some men’s habitual inability to admit they are ever fallible. But, I made a big pasta. The carbs and the sea air put them to sleep and peace reigned once more.
Today was also the tribute concert for Wiz in London. I wished for once that I could split myself in two.