Midsummer by Albert Moore.
Warm isn't it? More like July than May.
I could have done with someone fanning me in the train today.
I went to see The Cult of Beauty at the V&A last week.
I can't remember much about it because I seethed my way round.
The following exchange at the ticket desk is to blame
for my ugly mood.
Me to man at desk.
'Please could I have a £12 ticket?'
Man looks up.
'Twelve tickets?' he says incredulously.
'Are you mad?' he didn't say, but his face did.
'No, I just need one £12 ticket please.'
Man looks back at screen.
'Actually - £9,' he says firmly.
'Oh. OK. Thank you,' I say through a rictus grin.
Because what was I supposed to do?
He clearly knew better than I do, how old I am.
A queue was forming and an argument about my real age
would have been unseemly and ridiculous.
So - I gather that granny chic is all the thing
and I am going to embrace it.
Go with the flow.
Give up the battle.
Roll on 60.
Being Miss Marple is the way forward.
I went shopping and bought this
I was going to model it but then I decided
I didn't want you all lining up to agree with the man on the desk.
Clearly the cream isn't working.