To say that living through the last month has been rather effortful is an understatement. However, sometimes you just gotta keep on keeping on. So, here at AlaraApothecary we have decided to make lemonade from the surfeit of lemons. Pah to all would-be disasters- in God we trust.
The spring is sprung, the grass is riz.
I wonder where the boidie is.
They say the boidie’s on the wing.
But that’s absoid. The wing is on the bird.
Excellent reasons to count my blessings this week include-
- Finally, help seems to be on the way to help the child refugees in Europe. Of course, it would be preferable if the problem did not exist, but this is the world we live in. You do what you can and hope it will not propagate the problem
- A terrific birthday lunch at The Charlotte Street Hotel on Sunday. HBD Folistix 🙂
- a Cocktail-fuelled danceathon on Friday. If you’ve never tried a Peach & Raspberry Daiquiri, I strongly suggest that you do so if you get the chance
- A new Mayor for London. When it comes to politicians, I always feel a sea-change is beneficial once in a while, pour encourager les autres. Complacency and public policy make bad bedfellows
- My favourite new joke in lieu of Shakespeare’s quadricentennial: Q: why was Shakespeare thrown out of the pub? A: Because he was Bard
- Last but not the least, beautiful, glorious sunshine. Apple blossom, swallows, the smell of freshly-mown grass, Vitamin D, strawberries… Need I go on?
I leave you with a poem by one of my fave raves, Ogden Nash:
Two Dogs Have I
For years we’ve had a little dog,
Last year we acquired a big dog;
He wasn’t big when we got him,
He was littler than the dog we had.
We thought our little dog would love him,
Would help him to become a trig dog,
But the new little dog got bigger,
And the old little dog got mad.
Now the big dog loves the little dog,
But the little dog hates the big dog,
The little dog is eleven years old,
And the big dog only one;
The little dog calls him Schweinhund,
The little dog calls him Pig-dog,
She grumbles broken curses
As she dreams in the August sun.
The big dog’s teeth are terrible,
But he wouldn’t bite the little dog;
The little dog wants to grind his bones,
But the little dog has no teeth;
The big dog is acrobatic,
The little dog is a brittle dog;
She leaps to grip his jugular,
And passes underneath.
The big dog clings to the little dog
Like glue and cement and mortar;
The little dog is his own true love;
But the big dog is to her
Like a scarlet rag to a Longhorn,
Or a suitcase to a porter;
The day he sat on the hornet
I distinctly heard her purr.
Well, how can you blame the little dog,
Who was once the household darling?
He romps like a young Adonis,
She droops like an old mustache;
No wonder she steals his corner,
No wonder she comes out snarling,
No wonder she calls him Cochon
And even Espèce de vache.
Yet once I wanted a sandwich,
Either caviar or cucumber,
When the sun had not yet risen
And the moon had not yet sank;
As I tiptoed through the hallway
The big dog lay in slumber,
And the little dog slept by the big dog,
And her head was on his flank.
(Photos: Chandelier by Delightfull; Aquazurra shoes; Fendi 2016 bag: Nigel Slater’s Pistachio, Lime & Cardamom cake; Cucumber Margarita: Bel & Bel chair)
