|Late at the Tate Britain|
I chauffeured my aunty Carole to the Tate Britain, and felt like a wuss for complaining about snot. Carole has cancer, and will not be feeling all better next week or with cough drops or a good night's sleep.
Crocuses have been pushing their sunny heads up in my garden, and last night they were bashed to smithereens by the hail and wind. This morning I woke up craving the sea, so I followed a break in the clouds and walked in the wet sand for a while. The wind was blowing the foam up beyond the promenade, where sand and debris are piled behind the beach huts. Anything that wasn't bolted down (and lots of things that were) is torn up, knocked over or floated away. But Studland Beach, nearby, did inherit some of Cornwall's railway sleepers, so I guess we'll all work out even. And then I came home, where the cat needs a lap so I haven't been able to get anything done. But tomorrow is another day.
|After the Storm, Bournemouth|
I've had a sweet article mention from CaterpillarTales, reviewing Aquila Children's Magazine. Writing for children is my favourite!
Max and I are reading Terry Pratchett's 'The Wee Free Men' again, and enjoying it just as much as the last however many times.
And spring will eventually come.
And there is no such thing as a bad walk on a beach, is there.
You know, your friend may be very ill and there may be floods and earthquakes, but sometimes, you just need to feel like utter crap. And then, you need someone to stop, look you right in the eyes and say, "Oh, you poor BABY," while giving you a gentle hug and patting your hair. Because you deserve some lovin' too. So, here goes.
"Oh, you poor BABY!" *patpatpat*
--kate in MI