Two of my very favorite people moved to London last month, and I have been so thrilled for them but then also entirely, rabidly jealous. I'll think about them there and it's like sunshine on the High Weald, but then remember me not there and my vision seems to contract and warp as through a fisheye lens, my stomach turns in somersaults and the strangest sense of sweeping ache rises through me from the ground up and into my lips and fingertips like slow fire. I know. It's outrageous. I'm ashamed. I'm sorry. I'm going to work on that and write my way through it but the point is, in the meantime:
My very small ridiculous comfort was stealing this coronation program from Katie for a few hours before she left, a souvenir she picked up the last time she walked Portobello Road and one I have admired/adored/coveted ever since. Isn't it magnificent? I would like a room papered in the pattern just beneath the Royal Arms, please, and tea towels stamped with thistle, shamrock, and Tudor rose. Ummmm . . . wait; that gives me an idea; hold that thought.