I love that word, "pootling," it is so descriptive, it almost feels onomatopoeic. My life seems not to have been pootling, however, it seems to be whizzing. Whizzing and whirling past me.
Still, there has been enough time for some sock knitting. The yarn is an Admiral R Druck crazy coloured yarn that I probably bought online in a moment of madness. It looks better knitted up rather than still in the ball. It makes me imagine a homestead somewhere in the mid-west. Deserts and oases and fields and livestock.
A panoramic city view for a friend's 30th. I know it isn't old-old, but it is strange to think that we are all turning thirty. Still, the cashiers at the local shop seemed determined to not let me get too complacent at this great age; I was asked for proof of age when buying a cocktail mix there just two days ago.
Which brings me to this rather wonderful quote which was on the wall at Hatchard's, Piccadilly. Excuse the poorly executed phone picture. It says, "Nobody ought to write books before they're thirty. I hate precocity." Nancy Mitford, Wigs On The Green. Good to know I have a little while longer to be precocious then.
Last, but not least, I concluded the shell display in my bathroom, having retrieved a box of shells from my parents'. I believe some of them came from Aden, but that's another story entirely.