Whose Line

The anxiety continues; gallops almost.  One of the horsemen of the apocalypse.  Good to know that something is moving.  I'm still breathing into it, as that seems to be the only weapon I have.  I push the breath down, through the worst of it.  This works for about thirty seconds.  Fortunately I breathe quite often.

Today I took a different walk for my shopping/foraging, which seemed bold.  Trees have bushy legs like a fluffy cat, and the grass is out of control, heavy-headed with seed.  I am taking Benadryl on the daily, as the youngsters say, just so that I can go outside without sounding like a broken accordion.

I spoke to a lady in the supermarket about succulents, and then had a brief chat at the checkout.  It's the most talking I've done in ages.

Yesterday, Tony Slattery liked a Tweet that I'd made on one of his Twitter posts.  I've always had a soft spot for him. Now we are both old and resembling burst sofas, I just wish for him to be well.

We of a certain age are somehow bound to Tony Slattery.  Dark and seal-like in his youth, with a dangerous edge, he has become slightly undone with age.  Those of us who are a little unhinged recognise a kindred spirit.  Many years ago I saw him the worse for wear on a train and my heart lurched.  And then I met him through mutual improv friends one night at the Phoenix in London. He said "I'm Tony" and I replied "I know".  Because it was a fucking Richard Curtis film.  And then we moved to Notting Hill and I had his floppy-haired babies.

Actually I moved to Brussels.