Flea is still among those present......
Eyeing her bitten feet last night, Granny says: thoughtfully. 'The only part of my anatomy that I've really liked are (is?) my feet.' A thought evoked by lunch with the Bottle Blondshell whose much more decorated tootsies are not the best part of her otherwise far more desirable anatomy. Beloved, a man to whom vanity is a total mystery, says in a puzzled voice 'But why should it matter what your feet look like?' Adds, later- he's often said this; 'It's what's above the neck that matters.'
He's totally unfazed by his own looks. (Alright, actually.) He always has been, according to his family. Granny is sort of envious. Sort of not. Vanity can be fun. Bless him all the same. (Maybe it doesn't matter then that lack of the swimming pool is turning her flabby? It does to her. Vanity oh vanity. )
Saturday morning: CD review on radio 3, apart from mysterious blips when internet connection gets cut for no apparent reason. Beloved off for morning. Granny, ignoring battlefield which is kitchen (Beloved uses a lot of saucepans, and doesn't think wiping stove after culinary marathon is necessary) has nothing to do but write. Sun is out, weeds a-growing. Bliss.