That's my new middle name. Nothing, not peanut butter M&Ms, not banana split cake, not breaded pork chops and spinach fritters, not even chocolate ice cream made any dent in my bad mood last weekend. It's probably good I wasn't at writer's last Thursday. I would have snapped everyone's head off or bitten the end of my tongue off trying not to. I should be in a cage. How was your weekend?
January 26--T. Rowlandson & A.C. Pugin Westminster Hall. Bonnie felt like she was one car in an endless train. The escorted tour that had sounded so fascinating on paper had turned out to be like being held captive. She wanted an afternoon off. She wanted to investigate interesting looking little boutiques on side streets. She wanted more than thirty minutes to eat breakfast. And she wanted to tell Estelle, the tour guide, that she was too old to be able to control when she had to visit a restroom. The rest of the sheep on the bus sat lethargically looking out the window at the swiftly passing countryside and docilely shuffling through echoing churches and musty museums. Even though she was older than three-quarters of her fellow captives she decided that they were all nearer the grave than she was. She resolved to make a break for freedom that very day, bad knees and all.
Stay warm.
--Barbara
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