Drinking Saint-Emilion from a nutella jar

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Yesterday’s transport was well fouled-up, worse for many others than for me, and perhaps it would be insensitive to talk about a Black Hole on wheels. Still, enforced intimacy with the other wedged standees made occasion for the kindness of women, hot news from the Hong Kong riots mingling with sisterly or motherly encouragement for the youngest, late for her interview.  Hope she got it.

Falling feverishly out of the train, I encountered more womanly kindness:  the church ladies supplying home made scones and tea, jokes, and advice to take five minutes quiet upstairs.  It was good advice too, and I wish I could have fitted the whole ceiling into the shot.

The rain held off, the cathedral filled up, the parents did their thing, and one of the nearests-and-dearests shared Emma with me by earbud to mask the announcer, but she left me in the lurch just before the Chancellor’s speech, when I needed Austen the most.  The Chancellor read a “poem” – a long poem – what he had wrote.  It was … bad.  Other excesses of the day included scarlet cloth and purple squiggles (jacquard? brocade? I never know) and a pink tie.  And a bonnet.

Today:  a forced march in the damp morning to look at a teeny place face-lifted by the upwardly mobile.  Is it Destiny or a dud?  I have opened a bottle, but so much progress has been made in the kitchen that for a moment I thought it would have to be drunk from a chipped mug or a marmalade jar.

There’s rather a lot for one.

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