Today
Went shopping at the supermarket today. It was a mixture of the usual essential top-up and getting in food for tonight's dinner with my brother and wife.
"Karen likes her G&Ts," I said to Paul "We're alright for tonic, aren't we?" "Well, I opened one during the week," he said "so I'm not sure". I said that I thought I'd seen some bottles lined up in the utility room, but decided not to interfere.
Later, in the pharmacy aisle I saw Paul clutching a pack of Paracetamol. "You are joking, aren't you?" I said "we've enough packets in the bathroom to sink the proverbial." Again I didn't argue and they were duly bought.
The fact is, I should know by now, that when Paul tells me we're a bit short on something, I'll return home to discover a bulging cupboard of this particular item. We even have a name for it "The glass cleaner syndrome" relating to a time when Paul seemed to find it necessary to top on this item until we had approximately ten bottles of the stuff.
Paul says that his anxiety dates back to the great toilet roll shortage of 1974-5, but I think that's just an excuse.
In My Day
I do like a nice full store cupboard, it's true. When I was a child, nearly all of the shopping was done locally, with Mamma walking up to the shops about a mile away and walking back with three or four laden carrier bags. These bags were made of paper with string handles and I can remember Mamma showing us the weals on her hands from the weight of the bags when she got home. Greengroceries were delivered, I believe. Sometimes we'd go on the bus to Crystal Palace to buy items or to the Surrey Street market in Croydon (I remember the cabbage leaves lying in the gutters).
So it must have been quite hard to set up and maintain a store cupboard. However, we did, with things like flour, cocoa, dried and crystallised fruit, packet soup mix, tinned fruit, salad cream and luncheon meat. I often wonder how it differs from mine, with its sun dried tomatoes, tins of dolmades, olive oils and balsamic vinegars, packets of pasta, several types of rice and a full range of Indian spices.
Somethings are truly not the same today as they were then; the crystallised fruits that Mamma bought were great slices of citrus peel with lumps of faintly orangey sugar stuck to them (which we'd eat if we could get our hands on them). I only ever see ready-chopped peel these days and it looks so unappetisingly mingy that I often avoid it in recipes altogether.
After we got home with the shopping I checked and told Paul that we have enough Paracetamol in the bathroom, not counting what we'd bought today or what might be in other rooms or handbags, to cure 28 headaches or level one hangovers.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Blue Twist
Today
Had a very nice lunch at the City Arms in Wells with the girls, nephew and friend. Having kidded the waitress about the origins of the steel bolts in the dining tables we then updated her on the new Walkers Crisp flavours.
Becky had come fresh from organising the PR event at which these were revealed and arrived with a bin-liner full of packets of the new-flavoured crisps. Apparently, in credit-starved Britain we are all desperate for new crisp sensations. Salt 'n' vinegar, BBQ'd beef and prawn cocktail flavours are just not enough for our sated senses.
No, we need Builder's Breakfast flavour (with or without black pudding, we wanted to know) or Onion Bhaji flavour (fully endorsed by the Indian Restaurant confederation).
While I'm sceptical about the value of Chili 'n' Chocolate, Cajun Squirrel does at least have the merit of originality.
In My day
I've talked before in this blog about whether we have too much in the way of choice and crisps are a case in point. When I was a child I simply remember Smith's Crisps. The
y came in a white bag with a very nice diamond-shaped design on the front in red and blue.
There were two flavours of crisp; all contained in the one bag. The crisps were plain, unsalted and had the skins still on. Inside the bag was another smaller bag. Well, actually, it was a little screw of blue paper. This contained salt and you could (if you wanted) untwist it and shake exactly as much salt as you wanted over your crisps. I'm told by those in the know, that, no matter how careful you were, it was impossible to get the salt evenly distributed; there always being a residue of oversalted crisps at the bottom.
I preferred mine au naturel and never undid those little screws of paper.
I remember making crisp sandwiches, a nutritious snack of white bread, butter and crisps. Delicious!
Only later was this purity polluted by other brands of crisps and such taste travesties as ready salted (extra salted in pubs so you would drink more beer) cheese and onion, crinkle cut crisps and, the final horror, low-fat crisps. Well, the whole point of a crisp is its golden fried quality and low-fat crisps taste like cardboard.
Anyway, Becky has promised us a blind crisp tasting this evening. Crispy duck and Hoi-sin sauce, anyone?
Had a very nice lunch at the City Arms in Wells with the girls, nephew and friend. Having kidded the waitress about the origins of the steel bolts in the dining tables we then updated her on the new Walkers Crisp flavours.
Becky had come fresh from organising the PR event at which these were revealed and arrived with a bin-liner full of packets of the new-flavoured crisps. Apparently, in credit-starved Britain we are all desperate for new crisp sensations. Salt 'n' vinegar, BBQ'd beef and prawn cocktail flavours are just not enough for our sated senses.
No, we need Builder's Breakfast flavour (with or without black pudding, we wanted to know) or Onion Bhaji flavour (fully endorsed by the Indian Restaurant confederation).
While I'm sceptical about the value of Chili 'n' Chocolate, Cajun Squirrel does at least have the merit of originality.
In My day
I've talked before in this blog about whether we have too much in the way of choice and crisps are a case in point. When I was a child I simply remember Smith's Crisps. The
y came in a white bag with a very nice diamond-shaped design on the front in red and blue.There were two flavours of crisp; all contained in the one bag. The crisps were plain, unsalted and had the skins still on. Inside the bag was another smaller bag. Well, actually, it was a little screw of blue paper. This contained salt and you could (if you wanted) untwist it and shake exactly as much salt as you wanted over your crisps. I'm told by those in the know, that, no matter how careful you were, it was impossible to get the salt evenly distributed; there always being a residue of oversalted crisps at the bottom.
I preferred mine au naturel and never undid those little screws of paper.
I remember making crisp sandwiches, a nutritious snack of white bread, butter and crisps. Delicious!
Only later was this purity polluted by other brands of crisps and such taste travesties as ready salted (extra salted in pubs so you would drink more beer) cheese and onion, crinkle cut crisps and, the final horror, low-fat crisps. Well, the whole point of a crisp is its golden fried quality and low-fat crisps taste like cardboard.
Anyway, Becky has promised us a blind crisp tasting this evening. Crispy duck and Hoi-sin sauce, anyone?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Here's looking at you
Today
It's no good; I've reached that point where I need spectacles to look for my spectacles. The other day I'd put them down while applying my makeup and was actually driving up the Close before I realised I hadn't got them. And it was quite a job searching for them among my makeup brushes and other debris.
I wear varifocals which are great for almost everything except walking downstairs. Then the focal lengths are the wrong way round so I either walk down peering at my feet like an old lady (which I guess I am) or I take them off, which necessitates another search for them.
I'm not a candidate for varifocal contact lenses (apparently one lens is close and one distance) because my two eyes are so different.
Paul surprised an old friend of ours the other day by telling him that I barely see out of the left eye. I suppose I have to be glad that it isn't obvious.
In My Day
I have what is known as a "lazy eye". I'm not certain that I like this morally-laden way of describing it as though it could see better if only it just stopped lazing around, sipping margaritas. It affects my left eye only. Mamma always thought that it was as a result of my having an infection in my eyelashes on that side when I was very little, although various ophthalmic experts have disagreed with this.
What it means is that my brain simply doesn't respond to signals from the eye, which is quite OK in itself.
When I was little the first solution suggested by the NHS was that I wear an eye patch over the good eye and a very smart pair of pink wire-framed glasses (I've an idea they eventually became considered quite cool by certain people during the sartorially challenged '70s). The plan was that this therapy would force the only available eye to get off its backside and do some work.
Perhaps this might have worked if I hadn't pulled the eyepatch off whenever no-one was looking and succeeded in "accidentally" breaking those oh-so-cool glasses at an early stage. Somehow Mamma, who was fairly laissez-faire in some matters, never took me back to be prescribed more. (What would be the point? I'd only lose them again.)
What was curable, suggested the medics, was my squint. It was actually only a slight cast to the left, but we were all agreed that it detracted from my undeniable beauty. The cause, we were told, was a tightening of the muscle to the left of the eye. Cut that and give it a chance to grow back straight and all would be well.
So, when I was ten, I was booked into King's College Hospital in Camberwell for the operation. I remember being on a normal surgical ward and being rather a mascot among the other, adult patients. I remember coming round after the op and being very sick, bringing up some orange juice. Mamma came to visit and brought me a new and cute nightie which had a pattern of alarm clocks on it. My eye felt very sore and I was taught how to make and given the responsibility for administering a saline solution.
The eye soon recovered, as did the squint,and those that love me even today know when I'm feeling tired or stressed as my eye wanders off portside.
At one time Beatrice and I performed a folk-song together _ "The Drummer and the One-eyed Cook". Strange that it was Beatrice who played the cook!
Anyway, I hate wearing specs and not even the classiest fashion mags in the world will ever convince me that glasses look stylish.
It's no good; I've reached that point where I need spectacles to look for my spectacles. The other day I'd put them down while applying my makeup and was actually driving up the Close before I realised I hadn't got them. And it was quite a job searching for them among my makeup brushes and other debris.
I wear varifocals which are great for almost everything except walking downstairs. Then the focal lengths are the wrong way round so I either walk down peering at my feet like an old lady (which I guess I am) or I take them off, which necessitates another search for them.
I'm not a candidate for varifocal contact lenses (apparently one lens is close and one distance) because my two eyes are so different.
Paul surprised an old friend of ours the other day by telling him that I barely see out of the left eye. I suppose I have to be glad that it isn't obvious.
In My Day
I have what is known as a "lazy eye". I'm not certain that I like this morally-laden way of describing it as though it could see better if only it just stopped lazing around, sipping margaritas. It affects my left eye only. Mamma always thought that it was as a result of my having an infection in my eyelashes on that side when I was very little, although various ophthalmic experts have disagreed with this.
What it means is that my brain simply doesn't respond to signals from the eye, which is quite OK in itself.
When I was little the first solution suggested by the NHS was that I wear an eye patch over the good eye and a very smart pair of pink wire-framed glasses (I've an idea they eventually became considered quite cool by certain people during the sartorially challenged '70s). The plan was that this therapy would force the only available eye to get off its backside and do some work.
Perhaps this might have worked if I hadn't pulled the eyepatch off whenever no-one was looking and succeeded in "accidentally" breaking those oh-so-cool glasses at an early stage. Somehow Mamma, who was fairly laissez-faire in some matters, never took me back to be prescribed more. (What would be the point? I'd only lose them again.)
What was curable, suggested the medics, was my squint. It was actually only a slight cast to the left, but we were all agreed that it detracted from my undeniable beauty. The cause, we were told, was a tightening of the muscle to the left of the eye. Cut that and give it a chance to grow back straight and all would be well.
So, when I was ten, I was booked into King's College Hospital in Camberwell for the operation. I remember being on a normal surgical ward and being rather a mascot among the other, adult patients. I remember coming round after the op and being very sick, bringing up some orange juice. Mamma came to visit and brought me a new and cute nightie which had a pattern of alarm clocks on it. My eye felt very sore and I was taught how to make and given the responsibility for administering a saline solution.
The eye soon recovered, as did the squint,and those that love me even today know when I'm feeling tired or stressed as my eye wanders off portside.
At one time Beatrice and I performed a folk-song together _ "The Drummer and the One-eyed Cook". Strange that it was Beatrice who played the cook!
Anyway, I hate wearing specs and not even the classiest fashion mags in the world will ever convince me that glasses look stylish.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Fa la la la la, Fa la la la
Today
When I told David that I was singing madrigals he press-ganged me (fairly willing I was) into joining a group with the catchy title of The Byrdian Society. This was a tiny madrigal group that he and his friend Gregory had created in an attempt to raise funds for the local preservation society. In fact, it was so small that I was the third member. We found a second soprano and alto and were all set.
It's not really surprising that I'm feeling croaky. I've just returned from my annual weekend at Halsway Manor in the Quantocks. Each year, The Laetare Singers, a group of about 60 like-minded singers, get together with a conductor for a weekend of singing and socialising. 
This weekend our conductors David and Libby took us from the lush passion of the Cardosa Requiem through Parry's Songs of Farewell to arrangements of African singing.
As if that wasn't enough, each evening after supper we gathered in the lounge bar with its beautiful fire and sang together informally. sacred motets, songs, anthems and, of course, madrigals.
A lot of the time we were rather Can Belto but occasionally we managed to tap into the breathtaking beauty of the works, despite, or maybe because of having a book in one hand and glass of wine in the other.
In My Day
The first proper madrigal I ever sang was "April is in my Mistress' Face". Beatrice and I can still sing our parts without music. Earlier blogs will show how amazed I was to discover madrigals when I first went to grammar school. From the 5th form onwards I was a member of the madrigal group and really enjoyed our singing.
When I told David that I was singing madrigals he press-ganged me (fairly willing I was) into joining a group with the catchy title of The Byrdian Society. This was a tiny madrigal group that he and his friend Gregory had created in an attempt to raise funds for the local preservation society. In fact, it was so small that I was the third member. We found a second soprano and alto and were all set.
We sang a wide range of madrigals and as the only voice on my part for most of the time it was an initiation into sight reading of the most drastic kind. I don't think our marketing was very good and we often performed to audiences of fewer than ten. A high spot was a Christmas concert given at 4 Beulah. We sang medieval carols and Mamma served mulled wine, mince pies and turkey sandwiches. And we had a full house of about twenty five.
Gregory also was choirmaster at a small Catholic church in West Norwood. The church itself looked like a warehouse and the congregation was mostly Italian and Irish immigrants. But every week they had a full polyphonic mass. We once gave a concert to a skeleton audience in which I sang Allegri's Miserere, complete with top C's.
Thanks to my school and Gregory, I am able to sight-read complex polyphonic works without a scrap of more than the most basic musical knowledge.
But I do think it's a hot drink and early night tonight.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Blast Off
Today
We all had sparklers which we loved to whirl around to write our names in the air.
More on our New Year adventures in Amalfi. The trip wasn't just confined to wine-tastings, of course. There was also much feasting and enjoyment of the beautiful coast which the Italians, even with their tendency to overdevelop their assets, can't spoil.
We were let into the secrets of Limoncello production, saw a bookbinding demonstration and went by boat to Positano where we none of us got further than the sea front restaurants. We ate all kinds of meals from the fantastic to the mundane and enjoyed an appallingly badly organised concert at the Duomo. We wondered at the frequent but apparently random firing of guns or cannons in Amalfi.
Of course, New Year's Eve was the high spot. We celebrated this at our hotel, the Luna Convento, a former convent perched on the cliffs to the West of Amalfi.
We put on our glad rags and joined the rest for a fair-to-middling dinner. There was plenty of good wine, however, champagne, and good company.
As midnight sounded we gathered on the terrace as the fireworks started. Not confined to Amalfi; the hillsides spluttered, glowed and exploded with all types of fireworks. The ground rocked. Fireworks careered heavenwards out of the sea (how did they do that?) and the harbour wall was a constant flurry of rockets and displays of all types. And there were bangs emanating from everywhere.
I'm a complete sucker for this kind of thing and go "ooh" and "aah" with no embarrassment at all.
In My Day
When we were children, we always celebrated Guy Fawkes night. Our huge untamed Victorian garden was just p
erfect for this. The fire would be built up over the preceding weeks and a Guy made out of old shirts, trousers and socks and stuffed with newspaper. I don't think that our Guys would ever have earned us many pennies as I don't think this was an area in which our creativity shone.
erfect for this. The fire would be built up over the preceding weeks and a Guy made out of old shirts, trousers and socks and stuffed with newspaper. I don't think that our Guys would ever have earned us many pennies as I don't think this was an area in which our creativity shone. Daddy always bought plenty of fireworks; selection boxes and extra rockets. Chris seemed to have a preference for bangers and firecrackers which leapt about unpredictably around your feet.
We all had sparklers which we loved to whirl around to write our names in the air.
Idon't think that I was ever allowed to light the fireworks themselves; that seemed to be a boy-thing. I'm sure that reasonable safety was observed, but Daddy certainly didn't make a big thing out of it. Rockets were placed in milk bottles and whirred and hissed around our heads, releasing sparks, coloured stars and spangles. Roman Candles gave us deliciously unexpected pops of colour; I couldn't decide whether I preferred the Golden or silver rain and "traffic lights" were fun with their red, green and amber. Daddy never quite got the knack of Catherine Wheels (whoever thought up that cruel name?), which only occasionally spun round when they should. We sent up a cheer when they succeeded.
The event was utterly satisfying, celebrating Winter and darkness and giving us a splendid stepping stone to Christmas.
We decided to have a few home fireworks at home on Christmas Day last year. Were they really not as good as they used to be, or were my expectations too rooted in childhood fantasy?
The event was utterly satisfying, celebrating Winter and darkness and giving us a splendid stepping stone to Christmas.
We decided to have a few home fireworks at home on Christmas Day last year. Were they really not as good as they used to be, or were my expectations too rooted in childhood fantasy?
Hitch-hiker
Today
As usual, Christmas and New Year have flashed past. Paul and I decided to spend New Year (including, of course, my birthday) with Arblaster & Clarke in Amalfi.
We and about 25 other like-minded people visited Campanian wineries, sampled wines from unfamiliar grapes such as Fiano and Aglianico, and learnt that the vine stock in Campania, alone out of almost all Europe is not susceptible to Phylloxera, which wiped out the rest of our wine stock.
The wineries were quite modern with much stainless steel and computerised temperature control, which contrasted with the craggy mountain scenery. We were taken by coach (driven by the imperturbable Grazziano) from Amalfi to Furore. This was only 20 kilometres but, along the twisty roads, the drive took well over an hour.
The hills stretched above and below us. Every inch, in true Italian fashion, was utilised, with vines, olives, vegetables, tennis courts, hotels and dwellings. We were told that there were also sheep on the hills although I didn't see any, and that many people planted beans and potatoes in the soil beneath their vines, thus maximising the use of each bit of soil and preventing the soil from becoming depleted.
"Only the Italians could name a place Furore, meaning "frenzy", " I said to Paul. "But I remember this road."
In My Day
In 1969 my friend Angela and I decided that the way to spend the Summer was to hitch-hike our way around Europe. The rest of the world's young people were doing it and what could possibly go wrong?
We set off, with backpacks, £40 each, a map of Europe and high hopes. In our studenty and egalitarian innocence we had simply not reckoned with the view that many European males would have of two girls on the road without protection.
As we worked our way through France and Italy we had to fend off all kinds of approaches, from the furtive to the dangerous and outrageous. The man who offered us a lift a little way from Florence on the way to Rome offered to take us the whole way if I'd have sex with him. When I refused he simply threw us both out onto the Autostrada.
So, by the time we were preparing to leave Rome, heading for Naples, we were prickly with suspicion. Outside the Hostel at Rome another student was offering lifts to Naples. We decided to accept, sizing him up as harmless and, anyway, much smaller than us.
We hopped into the car. Our driver didn't speak much English and I had only pidgin Italian. We both had reasonably good French. Angela refused to try anything but English so I got into the front and chatted about this and that in an amicable fashion as we sped along the autostrada.
As we approached Naples there was a division in the road "Napoli" one way, "Bari" the other. Our driver confidently took the Bari exit. Now, Bari is an East Coast port, nowhere near Naples. I asked the driver what the hell he was doing.
He protested "I'm just popping home to pick up a few clothes and see my Mama. Then I'll take you wherever you wish." Was he one of the stealth seducers? I suggested he pull the other one and said I was fed up with stupid men who thought we were for up for anything and couldn't keep their trousers on. I called him every name I could think of in every language I could muster.
Angela, squirmed in the back seat. "DO something, Julia"! she said. I said that a) there was one of him, two of us, b) we were a good deal larger than he, c) we were on the autostrada.
Soon after, the driver turned off up a side roads and twisted and turned up the mountainside till he reached a small hilltop town. He stopped outside a shop, got out of the car and entered, calling out, "Mama!". I began to blush with embarrassment.
But it was true. He took us into the shop and introduced us to his mother, a typical Italian "potato" lady, dressed in black. We were made welcome and taken into a vast dining room that looked like a furniture store (perhaps it was; our marble table was covered in plastic). There a huge meal was prepared and put in front of us. Angela looked at it in horror. "I can't eat all that!" she said. "You eat every mouthful", I hissed, "You don't know the names I've called her son!"
When we had finished and said our thanks and farewells, we got back in the car and were treated to the most amazing drive along the Amalfi coast, all the way to Sorrento. There was less traffic then than there is now and I expect the road was less good, too. I gazed enraptured and appalled at the vertiginous mountain, covered with vineyards, olive and lemon trees. I apologised to our driver, explaining that we had had some rather funny times and he was very gracious.
We stopped at Sorrento and decided that this was as good as it got and never made it to Naples.
Our patient driver, a medical student in Rome, was called Dante and it did seem churlish, as we sat in the harbour overlooking the hazy sea toward Capri, not at least to reward him with a kiss.
As usual, Christmas and New Year have flashed past. Paul and I decided to spend New Year (including, of course, my birthday) with Arblaster & Clarke in Amalfi.
We and about 25 other like-minded people visited Campanian wineries, sampled wines from unfamiliar grapes such as Fiano and Aglianico, and learnt that the vine stock in Campania, alone out of almost all Europe is not susceptible to Phylloxera, which wiped out the rest of our wine stock.
The wineries were quite modern with much stainless steel and computerised temperature control, which contrasted with the craggy mountain scenery. We were taken by coach (driven by the imperturbable Grazziano) from Amalfi to Furore. This was only 20 kilometres but, along the twisty roads, the drive took well over an hour.
The hills stretched above and below us. Every inch, in true Italian fashion, was utilised, with vines, olives, vegetables, tennis courts, hotels and dwellings. We were told that there were also sheep on the hills although I didn't see any, and that many people planted beans and potatoes in the soil beneath their vines, thus maximising the use of each bit of soil and preventing the soil from becoming depleted.
"Only the Italians could name a place Furore, meaning "frenzy", " I said to Paul. "But I remember this road."
In My Day
In 1969 my friend Angela and I decided that the way to spend the Summer was to hitch-hike our way around Europe. The rest of the world's young people were doing it and what could possibly go wrong?
We set off, with backpacks, £40 each, a map of Europe and high hopes. In our studenty and egalitarian innocence we had simply not reckoned with the view that many European males would have of two girls on the road without protection.
As we worked our way through France and Italy we had to fend off all kinds of approaches, from the furtive to the dangerous and outrageous. The man who offered us a lift a little way from Florence on the way to Rome offered to take us the whole way if I'd have sex with him. When I refused he simply threw us both out onto the Autostrada.
So, by the time we were preparing to leave Rome, heading for Naples, we were prickly with suspicion. Outside the Hostel at Rome another student was offering lifts to Naples. We decided to accept, sizing him up as harmless and, anyway, much smaller than us.
We hopped into the car. Our driver didn't speak much English and I had only pidgin Italian. We both had reasonably good French. Angela refused to try anything but English so I got into the front and chatted about this and that in an amicable fashion as we sped along the autostrada.
As we approached Naples there was a division in the road "Napoli" one way, "Bari" the other. Our driver confidently took the Bari exit. Now, Bari is an East Coast port, nowhere near Naples. I asked the driver what the hell he was doing.
He protested "I'm just popping home to pick up a few clothes and see my Mama. Then I'll take you wherever you wish." Was he one of the stealth seducers? I suggested he pull the other one and said I was fed up with stupid men who thought we were for up for anything and couldn't keep their trousers on. I called him every name I could think of in every language I could muster.
Angela, squirmed in the back seat. "DO something, Julia"! she said. I said that a) there was one of him, two of us, b) we were a good deal larger than he, c) we were on the autostrada.
Soon after, the driver turned off up a side roads and twisted and turned up the mountainside till he reached a small hilltop town. He stopped outside a shop, got out of the car and entered, calling out, "Mama!". I began to blush with embarrassment.
But it was true. He took us into the shop and introduced us to his mother, a typical Italian "potato" lady, dressed in black. We were made welcome and taken into a vast dining room that looked like a furniture store (perhaps it was; our marble table was covered in plastic). There a huge meal was prepared and put in front of us. Angela looked at it in horror. "I can't eat all that!" she said. "You eat every mouthful", I hissed, "You don't know the names I've called her son!"
When we had finished and said our thanks and farewells, we got back in the car and were treated to the most amazing drive along the Amalfi coast, all the way to Sorrento. There was less traffic then than there is now and I expect the road was less good, too. I gazed enraptured and appalled at the vertiginous mountain, covered with vineyards, olive and lemon trees. I apologised to our driver, explaining that we had had some rather funny times and he was very gracious.
We stopped at Sorrento and decided that this was as good as it got and never made it to Naples.
Our patient driver, a medical student in Rome, was called Dante and it did seem churlish, as we sat in the harbour overlooking the hazy sea toward Capri, not at least to reward him with a kiss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)