LAS to LHR

     The last time I wrote we were holed up in Las Vegas awaiting BA’s instructions after our emergency landing. Exhausted, we slept not at all. Our very detailed instructions from the airline appeared the next morning -- go to the airport and wait. We did. We finally arrived at Heathrow, two days after our departure from LAX. We were met by our great friends. So happy to see them… it was weep worthy.

     Three weeks have passed, more even, and there is so much to tell, so much that I’d have to write a minor epic. Can’t do it. But I had an inspiration. We went to the cemetary at Highgate where Marx is buried, and amongst the famous and not so famous tombstones was that of a man who had died recently. Only in his early forties, his tombstone listed people, places, feelings,adjectives, and occupations to describe him.  I decided to chronicle the last three weeks in the same manner.

     McCarran International Airport, Equestrian Hotel, manure, Heathrow, relief, sleep, Jane’s delicious fish-pie, dead-sleep, King Edward one man show, Chelsea Arts Club, Chelsea bun, Victor Hugo’s great-great-great-grandson, Hawke Farm Hawke Farm Hawke Farm, flu, jet-lag, manuscript delivered, lovely Clare and Mike and Emma, Thames Walk walk walk walking, The Old Ship, Wells Cathedral Evensong, strolling round the moat, fields of swans, Mill Cottage, The Pink Cottage, Triyoga Chelsea, the wonderful Mr. Bates et al, sleep sleep and more sleep, Tate Britain, National Portrait Gallery, Highgate, The Golden Hind, Late at the Tate in the fog on the South bank then over the Thames footpath for a pint in the night, Jeremy’s wonderful friends, a good curry, packing, weepy, leaving, thanks to Somerset Emma, fish and chips with Keith, the Pink Cottage, birdsong at dawn, fields, lambs, green, listening to the sounds of our gorgeous peahen Penny in her tree, and then tonight… a leek and bacon risotto with a glass of red… good-night.