2001

From July or eight months old. Time flies.

This morning I do the school drop and the Shakespeares drag their guitars, lunch boxes, water bottles, take-home satchels and music folders. It takes a miracle to get out the door but somehow every day is a.... From there I go to the next door Victoria to read a book and drink black coffee - another gorgeous morning in London. The post-drop-moms are in full-force sunning themselves on the terrace and gossiping. I inadvertently over-hear the running commentary including preferred yoga (pilates popular), summer hols (Italy, Portugal or America?) and of course absent mums (positive generally). I receive a few suspicious looks then considered part of the furniture, like everything else outside the private cosmos. Meanwhile Sonnet in Italy worries about a tomorrow's general transportation strike which could leave her stranded in Florence. Rough life but she knows she is well-missed here for sure.