Freed by foxgloves
Days have replicated, so found little to report yesterday. Worked gloomily on The New Idea, chatted with mum. I will take her cat heads to the Blue Dog gallery this weekend. The son in his twenties of her next door neighbours (the ones with the concrete dogs) is seriously ill with some kind of brain problem. For me the day steadily improved. I slipped out of my cell to hobble into the park and its secret garden, which was bursting with foxgloves, which somehow transported me to a happy place. They must love the rain, which today didn't fall till tea time. Lorraine working late, so Betty texted to suggest we meet in The Signalman at five. We had a bite to eat there, with some footie going on in the background. Betty, who had been hard at work in the cupcake industry, seems to be assembling work from several sources, including some teaching at her old Saturday stage school. A boon for me as I have been able to discuss parts of The New Idea with her too. Lucky to be able to have a...