Sunday in the Park

I got out my new flopsy hat and picnic dress for a crackers, pate and brie, buffalo wings (i know the wings don't match but they looked too tasty at zabar's ) picnic with Mr. Garcia. I've been in apartment-hunting hell for long enough to ball my fists and shake them at the heavens, so I think getting out for some sun might just be the thing to do right now.

:view album:

Homage to a particular wordsmith.

I wandered lonely as a cloud,
and then i thought, "Sod it,
i'll have a pint instead."

I'm happily perched on the edge of my very wedgewood-esque queen bed, the tea not so far from arms reach, Beatrix Potter's home next door in the village of Hawkshead, somewhere in the Lake District. A typical english drizzle smothers the pastoral hills in light mists not too far from a lake. But the photograph is a lie. That's taken from our lodgings in a glen in Scotland- Glencoe, where an infamous massacre took place. Perhaps the erratic internet will permit me to upload more piccys. We shall see. Indeed Great Britain feels somewhat peculiar- arousing a mixed feeling of homecoming to a home we never had, but only lived through our imaginations concocted by the english childhood literature of our upbringing.