![]() ![]() We walked to the Headmistress’s home for lunch every day, which was cooked by the kinder of her two sisters. On Mondays we had to march, in single file, around the room we took dance classes in, in freshly whitened plimsoles to the strains of what later became the theme music to Monty Python’s Flying Circus this mysterious custom was known as Drill. It was run by three sisters called Fowle and I had an elocution teacher who was older than God’s dog and still wore long skirts and a bonnet. Admittedly this was many years ago but even then it was quaint and anachronistic. But there’s a reason why the emerald green variation called to my heart.īetween the ages of 4 and 9 I attended a tiny private co-educational school. Thus far they’ve offered this design in black, beige, light blue, orange, and lilac gingham. Identically-cut Monki frock, gingham edition. A few weeks after that I’ll find out whether I’ll still need to wear contact lenses for distance and what prescription my new readers will be.īut back to the main content of the post. I’m hoping to get the left eye sorted late September/early October.Instead I had to make do with a Moorfields eyeshield stuffed with tissues and stuck to my face with Micropore. Mainly because the size and positioning of my ears made the elastic intolerable after twenty minutes tops. Prior to surgery I had to take out my right contact lens and affect an eye-patch for a couple of weeks.The reason my hair looks like shite is because twelve days ago I had a cataract in my right eye removed and getting one’s 'do done is not recommended for a couple of weeks after surgery.My hair, as you can see, looked like crap when I took these pics.Tumblr since appears to have eaten that draft and washed it down with a nice Chianti. I had in fact written about two thirds of this original post and saved it as a draft.They’ve been threatening to do it for four years and we are literally the last house in the last street to be done. We have no say in this noisy, intrusive, cat-terrorising folderol. The same thing is going on in my downstairs neighbours’ flat. There is a British Gas engineer currently boring holes in the outside walls of my flat with the aim of relocating my gas meter.It’s impossible for me to look soigné or remotely put together when I’m a sweaty, irritable mess. ![]() It’s hotter than Satan’s buttcrack outside and, consequently, inside my un-airconditioned first floor flat.I warn you this isn’t going to be much of a post for a whole raft of reasons:.
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