My cousin Faye who usually lives in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada but is now in Florida( to get warm) is so funny. She said of my Guildford meeting with Ashley:“How amazing is that?  Meeting the other person that lives in Saskatchewan!  Now you know all three of us.” So I guess funniness can be inherited and we both got it from somewhere. It is interesting in that our brothers, and those Dryburgh boys (in general) are not so blessed. I do not know why, but there you go. She lives on Dryburgh Crescent in Regina, when she is there in Regina. The crescents named for our Uncle Dave. I said to her that I know Uncle Dave would be proud of my blog although he would say: “What the hell is a blog?” Uncle Dave is not stupid but he drowned in 1948 before the days of blogs. Some would call him fortunate.

So it is heady have a blog. I love, love, love it. I tell EVERYONE but you can’t tell by the comments. Please get with it fans. I need fanfare and accolades. Desperately. I think everyone does but most are not brazen enough to ask. I am brazen, a word I truly love. If you are too lazy to look it up it does mean bold and without shame. The example given is brazen hussy. I think I am a little old to be a hussy but people say I look very young for my age. so there could be hope. One word used to describe hussy is minx, which reminds me of the fur jacket I got at the car boot sale for eight pounds three weeks ago. (If it comforts any of you, I laugh out loud at my own jokes and I have.) It is the secret of a good comedian or someone with bad taste.

It is now time for London Lamentations. One reason why I absolutely hate London is the bicyclists. They are a curse. Everyone thinks so but it is a brave person who speaks out about it. Me. Taxi drivers hate them because this Boris guy totally screwed up traffic by introducing bike lanes. Those lanes do not work but nobody does anything about it. I would if I were mayor of London but there is a little bit of a problem with my immigration status in this country, So traffic is stalled and bike lanes are in the strangest of places and you can readily get killed by some careening bicyclist. I will recount two bicycle stories from my recent past.

The first recent past is New Year’s Eve. I had a sort of date for that fabled evening but at the last minute I sent the following text to the gentleman involved. By the way the gentleman involved is forty and quite cute. “I had a dreadful experience last night, I was nearly run over twice by bicyclists who swore at me when I protested. I came to the following realization. What is a 73 year old woman doing out on the streets of London? Especially since I guess I was not drunk enough to not notice I was being run over. I am therefore declining your kind invitation and going back to Plan A which was sleeping pill and hot water bottle. Have a great time without me, should that be possible.” Fast forward. I did do sleeping pill and hot water bottle New Years Eve 2016 but after going to church with a ninety-two year old woman I helped across the street. It was actually rather moving even though I am an atheist.

I had another dramatic encounter with a bicyclist near Russell Square. I had just crossed the square and was on the sidewalk making my way to the traffic light. I was armed with a rather large umbrella from the Montague Hotel. A bicyclist swooped by and missed me by inches. Instinctively I took aim and smacked him with the umbrella. He howled in protest, yelling:You Hit Me”. I shrugged my shoulders and said: “Yeah” He goes to the middle of the road in the midst of traffic and starts screaming at me at the top of his lungs. i am standing at the traffic light waiting for green man with two other blokes. At some point the bicyclist must of realized how stupid he looked screaming at a little old lady and he took off. The blokes said: Did you hit him with your umbrella?” “He seems to think so” “Well, don’t worry, if he would have come over here we would have defended you.” I replied, clutching my umbrella tightly in my fists: “What made you think I needed any help.” Believe me, I didn’t. I was more than a little angry. It would have been justifiable homicide. Moreover, there is no capital punishment in this country. Jail would actually be a good place to write. I had nothing to loose.

So there is a solution to rude bicyclists. But most Brits are cowards and would never use their umbrellas for their intended use. I emailed this tale of woe to my cousins at the time. My Australian cousin responded: “How did I exist before Alexis? You are so funny!” “How Did I Exist Before Alexis was included on the cover of the book, but now there is the new title. But I do think the final version of the book should include all the previous title pages that were rejected.

All of you will be green with envy when I tell you of my plans for the evening. Tickets for “Mary Queen of Scots” at the Almeida Theatre are coveted, they are as rare as hen’s teeth. I have two. I will be accompanied by my temporary “fake granddaughter” Hannah. Hannah is the grand daughter of my Canadian BFF Beth, my BFF since we were twelve. Hannah is here in London studying, this semester as a part of drama school education. The school is in Newfoundland. Huh? Newfoundland? Apparently!

Will wonders never cease?


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