The spoon lady

Cath woke up on Sunday with a strong urge to see last arrivals in the cookery sector of John Lewis. So, she got out of her home in a rush and went straight to the city centre. It was a sunny and warm day. While she was passing over Bute Street her attention was grabbed by a graffiti wall. She stopped and stared at the graffiti: “I would like to draw a big, yellow hearth,” she thought. But there was no time to do that. She turned back forgetting his heart there. Later on she came across a Greek church. She stopped in front of it and she longed for converting herself to orthodoxy. But she realised she could make that decision after John Lewis. Once arrived in John Lewis she felt relief. The people who work there are so kind and smiling. You would ask to buy them and take them to your home, so far as they are nice. “May I buy you?” Cath asked to a young man of the staff. “No, I am sorry,” he sweetly answered. At least she could buy spoons. New, shining, marvellous John Lewis last collection spoons.

Shall we dance?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Phenakistoscope_3g07690b.gif

One Art (written by Elizabeth Bishop)

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Ladybird died on the windowsill.
Too much cold.
Wish to pay a tribute to it.
But I can't.
Too much tired.
I'm going to sleep.
Now.

London St Paul hostel's window

British Library's toilet

Victorian times along the river Thames