Being Me

I won't say which coffee shop chain it was, although I doubt my critique would chip much off their bajillion-dollar profits, but yesterday I ordered an iced cappuccino, thus entering into one of the most bewildering half-hours of my life. This picture tells you what I'd expected. The following picture describes what happened more effectively. This wasn't a drink. This was a froth nightmare, a challenge, the kind you get on game shows. There was an inch or so of coffee in the bottom of the tall glass, then the rest, about three feet of it, was thick, white, stiff froth. I stirred with the straw I'd been given. Surely the coffee would mix with the froth. The drink laughed. The straw bent. I stirred again, faster. The drink guffawed. I fetched a spoon and began eating the froth, which stayed solid, like raw meringue mix. What do they add to it? Prittstick? The glue they put wounds back together with? I stirred again, maniacally. This time...

This week, I have some pictures for you from my phone's camera. I am going to try to find links between them.  Okay, so let's start this photo-blog with this beauty. I don't know his name. I'll call him Horse because I'm original like that. I visit Horse regularly. He lives in a field 15 minutes' walk away from my house. When I say 15 minutes' walk, I'm the one who walks to Horse, not Horse to me. I plug in my earphones, select a radio programme, and say to my husband, 'Going up the road to see Horse.' Horse listens to any problems you have and gives wise, merciful looks. He is cheaper than any other therapist. He does not judge. And you can trust him not to gossip. All he asks in payment is that you stroke him and feed him clumps of grass, which I call a bargain. This is the bandstand in Leamington Spa's Pump Room Gardens, near my home, and it's currently being restored to its original loveliness by a company special...