More inter- cultural jottings - from London this time. Rasta man - hair tucked into huge beret - in the street behind Granny's flats with small child, evidently his own. He is jumping the child up and down to the child's delight. "Upsidaisy" he says, "Upsidaisy". Granny doesn't think that phrase ever came out of Jamaica. But it certainly came out of her long-dead mother's mouth long ago and from hers, with her children and now with her grandchildren. UPSIDAISY. Indeed. It belongs to us all. UPSIDAISY.
But this is all she is going to write now. She is currently sitting on a very comfortable and very big bed in an extremely upmarket and Michelin starred establishment alongside the Thames - she and Beloved will shortly go for an exploratory riverside walk. No, she has not come into a fortune suddenly. This is a final joint family present to her and Beloved to celebrate - belatedly - their mutual arrival into an eighth decade. They have been, drooling, reading the menu for the meal which will at 8 o'clock be placed in front of them.
'Like eating money,' said a very puritanical friend once of a similar establishment. 'But oh what delicious money,' Granny said, 'what a delicious money just the same.' She will, very shortly, experience - with her tongue, her mouth, her tastebuds, her belly. this lovely money, for herself.
Though you will be glad to know that she has - on ethical grounds - turned down the offer of foie gras.