Light at the end of the tunnel

Meteorologically, the first day of Spring. Winter is banish-ed as Shakespeare would have said. So after an early morning lying in bed processing photos of a genuinely warm clime (Is-rael as King James would have it in his bible), I headed off to London on the fast train with a soya milk decaff latte and a cheese and marmite panini for my companions. For in truth, no man should set forth in this dangerous world without first venturing to the house of coffee, for in God's eyes a lack of the bucks of the stars is a veritable sadness (as Chaucer did surely say). My errand was the Aged P, a visit thereunto. But before I could embark on my carriage to the London Borough of Bromley I did have to walk towards the light in the tunnel that crosseth from Waterloo to Waterloo East, a journey which few men make happily but today was a source of great light and so a suitable topic for a blip.

It was by a small gift of the fates that my brother and his good woman were also embarked on the same pilgrimage, although neither of us knew this until the magic of the text descended to our eyes, our all-seeing sister having thus decreed. And so we met at Orpington Station and there was much hugging and good cheer in the sunshine that blessed our endeavours. And we got a taxi and paid too much both ways as it so transpired, but without demur.

And Aged P was most joyful for despite a soreness in her back and a tiredness she was pleased to see us and embraced us and enjoyed our prattling and tattling and picture making.

And after this we went back to the city and enjoyed coffee in that place of shopping Hayes Galleria, that temple of glass and brick, and the brother on walking out cried "bugger, for my wallet is lost! Oh woe is me! Third time in as many f***ing months" and did rush back into the temple. But the gods favoured him for it was still there under the seat where he had rested and had not been taken by any of the miscreants who stalk the city and those who are stupid enough not to have deep pockets for their treasures.

On parting I then met The Soul Mate and we did wander Borough Market and its stalls and had fish and chips and cheesy balls (no malady of the male groin  but a delicious confection of risotto, fried, should you be unacquainted with this delicacy). And on crossing Tower Bridge we met old acquaintances for it was one of those days when the fates bought people together. And so we passed by St Pauls and across the Milennium Bridge and caught the RV1 bus back to Waterloo, and so home, tired but happy, despite having to make a trip to Morrisons for essential supplies. And so the day passed into night and it was over, and thus passed the first day of spring.