Arrived at Kings Cross in London with no clue if there was anyone expecting me. I’d lost my little notebook of names, numbers and addresses.
Under a hundred pounds of luggage, just standing in line to buy tube tickets felt unbearable. I reminded myself that some people would suffer panic about now, but not me…
Miraculously, the most important number, that of Mel Allwood, bicycle saint and (“soblem prolver”) was in my little pink travel phone book. And now, at the other end of the line ( I called from the local Iceland frozen grocers), was the gentle Hannah Walsh, Mel’s lover. She’s a therapist by trade, and therapeutic by nature….
“I’ve been expecting you” in that genteel accent (which zone, who knows?).
The wobble left my knees.
This is one of those moments where I’m trapezing from one swinging bar to the next, “Elf-Helpers” there, arms outstretched.
Not all the time, but when I need those arms.
She came by foot, pushing a deliveryman’s dolly and we walked home in broiling ‘heat’ (eighty degrees!).
Within ten minutes we were at the pad, and squeezing my stuff into the lift.
Growing conscious of that pile of junk…how will it fit back at Taj Mahovel?
Relax, it’s mostly chocolate and pinhead oats…and lovely rummage from the tips.
She made a stunning little italian lunch (bresaola, mozzarella, tomatoes and basil) and then we went out.
Thanks to the fine weather, and all the recent “NAKID-ritude” (Phelanspeak for state of not wearing clothing), I succumbed to the urge to go bare-legged.
Why am I squeamish about showing leg?
Let me count the ways
a.) dead fish white
b.) hairy, bruised, raw of knee
c.) “so veiny” ( hey, gams, you probably think this blog is about you, don’t you? It’s NOT. It’s about my butt)
No, actually it’s trying to be about the marvels of London.
But my legs are clamoring for attention.
Anyway, it’s a public service, keeping ’em under wraps.