Real life takes over. It grabs by the the scruff of the neck and demands total engagement. Routine and change, long hours trying to keep on top of my work load. No head space from which to blog.
It isn't all work, though. I recently took a mini-break to London where I bought retro jewellery and wool in Camden Passage, a filigree heart and a tiny bronze figure of a tribesman in Portobello Road, called in the Persephone bookshop in Lamb's Conduit Street and travelled up and down the town from Clerkenwell to Richmond to Greenwich, courtesy of an off-peak travel card.
Then Margaret Thatcher died.I didn't celebrate. It seems unhuman to celebrate the death of anyone, even someone one profoundly disagreed with. I did listen to this song and understood the sentiment, though.
