.. but it pours, literally. Have just endeavoured to calm myself (while awaiting hospital to call back), by lying on my yoga mat, with (series of) flannels wedged over leaking breast. I'm going to have to go in again, aren't I? And I was so looking forward to SB turning up with all the kosher delights Hendon could offer..
This is all so, so, very unsexy. Why can't I have something Victorian-heroine-like, that makes me pale and interesting, complete with full recovery in the penultimate chapter, leading to happy outcome with dashing hero on final page?
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Perhaps Drummond Street sunflower was planted by those fine guerrilla gardening people. JS and I made note to subversively carry sunflower seeds throughout next spring, slipping them in wherever an opening should arise.
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