Revenge is a dish best served cold!

I got my own back on the Universe and the Internets last week, after my earlier, train-travel, unlocked door, embarrassing toilet-related incidents...

We called in at one of our village's Ye Olde English hostelries while we were waiting to pick up Grizz from the evening bus - (He'd travelled to the city after school to see his girlfriend, who's at University there).

I had my Demon Darts with me - My latest obsession. (...More laters). GJ ordered a drink of Lime and Soda (Water) for me from the bar, and I tootled off to the freezing-cold ladies' loos to 'spend a penny...' (I was day-dreaming about a Double Top, see LINK for the Darts Uninitiated), and I had elected to close firmly, and not actually lock, the door to the usually very deserted loos...

The pub has recently been taken over by a new landlady who is loud, lovely and very friendly, and I heard the main door to the ladies' open, and hurriedly squirrelled my vestments together, pulling the door firmly to, just as she reached forward for the Art Deco clear crystal door handle...

The scream she let out at finding there was a Ghoost already in there, rang throughout the Victorian former Coaching Inn, it's seventeenth century rustic sand-stones (probably pilfered from an earlier building - Well, it's the land of the Border Reivers after all!), and its 14 Bed and Breakfast rooms replete with of country walkers and Bird Twitterers... Ear-piercing, it was. Imagine Edvard Munch.



And how we laughed...

I explained away, wibbling hysterically - 'I'm sorry, but I never lock the door as the locks are a bit dodgy, and there's never anyone in here anyhoo, and I'm afraid that I'll get locked in and will never be able to climb out of the loos over the top of the shiny-tiled walls...'

Just then, the blonde bar-maid poked her head around the door, alerted by the Banshee Wail-like-scream of her new boss, believing we were all about to be murdered in front of her bar-nuts. And I scampered away, blushing red and shame-faced - Horrified that I'd terrified these kind folk...

And the landlady proffered, 'I think the locks are so old, that we'd have absolutely no problem getting you out, if you were ever locked in - So don't worry!' I remember that I complimented her on an awesome pair of lungs!

My life is just filled with wonder, n'est-ce pas? And I just know that I'm going to hell in a hand-cart at some point, non?!



Did you know?

To "Spend a penny - Meaning

To use a public lavatory.

Origin: This refers to the (former) use of coin operated locks on public toilets. It was used mostly in the UK and mostly by women (men's urinals were free of charge).

Such locks were first introduced, at a public toilet outside the Royal Exchange, London, in the 1850s. The term itself is later though. The first recorded citation of it is in H. Lewis's Strange Story, 1945:

"'Us girls,' she said, 'are going to spend a penny!'"

'Spend a penny' has now gone out of use, partly because charges have changed and partly because it was always a coy euphemism, which now seems rather dated. The writing was on the wall for this phrase, so to speak, from 1977, when the Daily Telegraph printed an article headed "2p to spend a penny"." SOURCE.

Sounds from the Jersey Shore...

I'm not lucky enough to live in New Jersey...

I loved The Boss long before he was even world-class-famous, from the time of his seminal album, Born To Run...

It meant a lot to me when I was a teenager... When I dreamt of sitting astride a motorsickle with my dark-haired heart-throb du jour, with my hands strapped across his engines....

So, when the chance came my way to see some stable-mates - Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes - in York, I jumped and stomped at the chance...



Southside Johnny exemplifies all the great sound and music that emerged from the Jersey Shore... But Uncle South has lived on endlessly it seems, in the shadow of The Boss, who occasionally still plays with Johnny and his band and who, over the years, as it turns out, has pinched much of Southside Johnny's carefully selected horn-section, among other musicians...

I don't know what you feel about Rhythm and Blues? I have sort of eclectic, sometimes catholic, musical tastes... Can you tell?! Rodgers and Hammerstein to Nu-Folk and The Boss!



And we laughed along with the band at Johnny's antics. At one point, he played a mean harmonica and threw it high up in the air - He threw out a hand to catch it, hopelessly, as it fell on to the stage many feet away!

Tell me what think you, mes bloggy Brasses? Je vous adore, je jure...

And Southside Johnny is nothing short of a legend...

Hell, he's even inspired Jon Bon Jovi!

The Hills Are Alive...

With The Sound of Music...

You know what it's like when winter comes along, and you just want to wrap yourself up in an eiderdown of an evening, never to venture out into the dark again...

Well, this week, I pushed myself out of my seasonal, duvet-enhanced, comfort zone, because my lovely friend who's about to leave me to fend for myself in the office, gave me a ticket to come along to see a famous stage musical with her and her sister. (Her teenage daughter had decided that she desperately needed to get some media coursework completed, rather than accompany her mum to the theatre - Honestly, teens can be damaging to your health - They should come with words of warning stamped across their foreheads, I swear...)

I was born and raised with the musicals of the Fifties and Sixties... My own mum was of that generation where your problems could be solved, or temporarily eased, by tootling off to the Wallaw Cinema to watch Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald, or Howard Keel and Doris Day, strut their stuff and exercise their vocal chords,...

So, armed with passports to get us into Sunderland from Tyneside, (if you're local, you'll know about our cities' urban rivalry, and occasional warfare - All based on Football!), we set off after work for the bright lights and the phosphorescent gleam of the Sunderland Empire Theatre.

I am sixteen going on seventeen... La, la, la la-la, la...

Did you know? According to Lady Wiki, herself no stranger to the Silver Screen:

"The Sound of Music was the final musical written by Rodgers and Hammerstein; Hammerstein died of cancer nine months after the Broadway premiere".

Climb Ev'ry Mountain...

"Details of the history of the von Trapp family were altered for the musical. Georg Ludwig von Trapp lived with his family in a villa in Aigen, a suburb of Salzburg. The real Maria von Trapp was sent to be a tutor to one of the children, not a governess to all of them. The Captain's oldest child was a boy, not a girl, and the names of the children were changed (at least partly to avoid confusion: the Captain's second eldest daughter, the third of the seven, was also called Maria). The von Trapps spent some years in Austria after Maria and the Captain married – they did not have to flee right away – and they fled to Italy, not Switzerland. Maria von Trapp is said to have been unhappy with the movie's portrayal of her husband as having been cold and stern prior to her arrival, which she and their children strongly dispute".



Edelweiss, Edelweiss...

"During the Cold War, the BBC planned to broadcast The Sound of Music on radio in the event of a nuclear strike on the United Kingdom. The broadcast would be part of an emergency timetable of programs designed to "reassure" the public in the aftermath of the attack".

And there was something wonderfully and timelessly reassuring about this musical - Stepping o'er into the past where the threat of invasion, the Anschluss, was greater than any of our usual, petty mortal, concerns...

Doe, a deer, a female deer...

I found myself humming along to all of the tunes - Being transported back to when The Sound of Music was on everyone's TV at Christmas... When we pulled our crackers along with the charming children, kitted out in their curtain-ware...



High on a hill stood a lonely goat-herd...

And the film and its songs have become iconic.

But this Maria won a nation-wide BBC competition, judged by Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webbed Feet, to be a 21st Century Maria... And Michael Praed was a compelling and believable Captain Von Trapp.



It was wonderful.






So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Good-bye...

It wasn't me...

Just in case you were wonderin'... I thought this week that I had swapped lives with my wondrously blue and clever friend from over The Pond, Bloggus Nuttus, who occasionally gets herself into some scraps and scrapes... But then, I came to my senses (the few Fhina has left!), to realise that - No, I have always been THIS clumsy.

It wasn't me on Friday, in fact who, on a long train journey from Morpeth to Leeds was taking a quiet pis-pis in the loo, only to find myself exposed 'en deshabillee' by a business-man pushing the button to enter the loo, only to find la Fhina still seated on her Throne... He was gone before I exited the establishment, thankfully - How can you look someone in the eye after that, mes bloggy Hand-Basins??!

And, it wasn't me this week who, during the refreshment break of a conference, squeezed into a ladies' toilet cubicle, only to find the decorative metal fastenings of my black denim leggings got snarled up with the hygienic disposal receptacle... I thought I was going to have to call for help from the staff to disentangle meself... How embarrassing would that have been??!

It wasn't me this week who, a short time later, turned on the hot water for hand-washing purposes, only to be trapped and soaked to my skin by the decorative and very, very powerful, fountain-jet of water skooshing out of the tap... I resembled a drowned rat, and looked as if I had swum from home to Leeds via the Coquet, the Tyne and the Ouse Rivers!

It wasn't me this week who rang in a fault with my computer at work to our help-desk a long, long way away... When someone hadn't come to sort out the fault in 40 minutes, I spoke to colleagues to see if they were having similar problems, only to find that I had actually called our off-site Building Maintenance people instead... Doh!

It wasn't me this week who, again at work, poured my last remaining jot of milk from the fridge down the sink, then rinsed my Peter Rabbit, (well, I do work in Early Years Policy!), mug out only to remember that I had actually come in to the kitchen to make myself a much-needed jolt of Joe!

It wasn't me who was in possession of two sets of train tickets for two identical journeys on two different days this week, only to take the wrong set out with me on the day I needed to travel to a meeting... And found out only once I had boarded the train, the train had left the station, and the ticket inspector was checking my tickets! I had to return to work after apologising to the kind inspector like a loon, being allowed by him to get out at the next stop without paying extra, and begging a lift back to the office from my husband, who had to leave his office and his busy job to rescue me... I then collected the right tickets from my office, and set out on my journey all over again... Ho hum...

Sometimes, I think life would just be soooo much easier were I to never leave the house... Seriously!

Sisters Of The Moon - Poesy In Black and White...

Intense silence
As she walked in the room
Her black robes trailing
Sister of the moon
And a black widow spider makes
More sound than she
And black moons in those eyes of hers
Made more sense to me
Heavy persuasion
It was hard to breathe
She was dark at the top of the stairs
And she called to me



And so I followed
As friends often do
I cared not for love, nor money
I think she knew
The people, they love her
And still they are the most cruel



She asked me
Be my sister, sister of the moon
Some call her sister of the moon
Some say illusions are her game
They like to wrap her in velvet
Does anyone know her name?

Good Luck Charm...

I've noticed the current trend for the wearing of charm bracelets amongst my peers. Particularly these ones, for some reason - Pandora.

We append brightly coloured tokens of love to our persons, we hang on to our precious symbols of memory and wonder - 'Souvenirs' - From the French:

Souvenir
Sou`ve·nir noun [ French, from souvenir to remember, from Latin subvenire to come up, come to mind; sub under + venire to come, akin to English come. That which serves as a reminder; a remembrancer; a memento; a keepsake.

Souvenir
A `souvenir` (from French, for `memory`), `memento` or `keepsake` is an object a traveller brings home for the memories associated with it. Souvenirs include clothing such as T-shirts or hats, and household items such as tea-towels, mugs and bowls, egg-timers, spoons and notepads. They may be marked to indicate their origin: `A Souvenir from Clacton-on-Sea`.

Souvenir
• (n.) That which serves as a reminder; a remembrancer; a memento; a keepsake.

A 'remembrancer'? I think they made that one up!

Anyhoo, 'the demand for charms or amulets existed in ancient society, and dates back to 500BC. The charms were made of natural gems or quartz - and they were often adorned with carved designs of animals or gods. The amulets were believed to have supernatural powers, protecting the wearer from harm, or helping to bring luck and love. In the late 1800's Queen Victoria chose to wear a charm bracelet with photos of family members in little lockets. Soldiers that traveled during WWII would bring little gifts and trinkets home to their loved ones. These were worn on charm bracelets. This trend remained popular into the 1970's. It was a mark of society to give a young girl a charm bracelet before she reached age 13, considered a way to bring luck to the recipient. Each special event, anniversary, birthday or holiday a new charm was given as a gift, usually by the person that gave the girl the original bracelet. They also became a great memento to mark trips and important travels. The charms represented the girl's hobbies and special interests'.

Today charm bracelets...are living history lessons. Each charm tells a story. And they make wonderful, romantic, sentimental gifts that can be handed down from generation to generation. As new charms are added to a bracelet, new stories are told.' SOURCE

And there you have it, mes bloggy charmers.

And I found myself selecting one of said Pandora charms yesterday for my dearest friend in the office, who is leaving us for Pastures New - sniff! I chose a lovely, sweet little horse - A good luck charm certainly, and one to remind her of me... Her friend - Fhina The Cart-Horse!



It brought a tear to both our eyes...

Fashions come and go o'er the years, and the passion for fashion trawls over old ground, stirring the past, reminding us of the things we had forgotten, (like 70's 'feck-off' collars (I'm not kidding!), puff-ball skirts, leg-of-mutton sleeves, and cod-pieces (Okay, so I was kidding with that one!).



And I gave my mam's silver charm bracelet, replete as it was with many charms, including an Eros charm from our trip to London and an intricate silver purse, to my god-daughter, Melia... I felt it was important to hand down the memories, the souvenirs, the family treasures - To proffer protection and symbolism to another generation, to mark that this person was on this earth and that we are all special in our own ways - Worth remembering.

And now, as my Birthday and Christmas approach, I'm really hankering after these...



I know they are over-priced, quirky and more peculiar than the mainstream... But then, so is Fhina!

Ciao, bellas! Mwah!

Shadow of The Moon...

I have been wearing the same ear-rings, (Pilgrim crystal studs, sort of orange in colour - gilt setting - Bargain basement trinkets that I bought for myself on my first outing after being out of commission for months with my back injury), for a month...

I wear them because I no longer own any gold ear-rings and the Pilgrim ear-rings are all that I own to go with a lovely gold necklace I commissioned last year after I had melted down some plain jewellery that was left to me by my mam and dad...

I could not wear their jewellery - Sizing and style issues - so I saw this as a way of keeping them both close to me, while enjoying a piece of jewellery that is very much more my 'thang'...

I took with me to the jeweller a brooch my mam had given me some years before for my birthday - Next month, by the way... 'Ere I was ever owned by cats, she had chosen an enamelled dark pink sparkly crescent moon with golden stars upon it and a black cat (a Witch's Familiar, perhaps?) standing to attention in the shadows. I asked the jeweller to make me a waning moon of the same size and fashion... That he managed to do so so well is testament to his great skill...

Of course, when I tootled off to collect it, I had no idea that it would look as if I'm wearing a golden scythe! A Sword of Damacles, perhaps... Peter Cushing and all that... Don't fear the Reaper!



Still, it's very me, non?! Very 'witchety-witch.' ...Believing in magic, spells and wonder, mystical and needful things... Sisters of the Moon. As if dreams might come true.

And I found myself crying the other night, while watching True Blood on TV, as the character, Tara, lay down next to her mom on the sofa and they comforted one another, in spite of their rather troubled relationship...

I touched the moon as if it were a talisman, a charm ***, and I wiped away my tears, as I acknowledged once more that I can never have that moment again with my mom who passed just over 13 years ago last month.

Christmas Day is her birthday, so I guess my nostalgia comes along with the season, non?!

Did you know that the 'Waning Moon is symbolic of letting go, surrender, release, quiet time, contemplation, and a time of incubation'.

So there you go...



*** I'm going to write about charms next - The Passion for collating and recording our stories... For making our mark in life.

Six Word Saturday...

Please call in and give your love to Cate and all her participants in Six Word Saturday?

The Mad-woman in the Attic!

A Day In The Rat-like-Fhina-Life...

Goodness me, Tuesday's was my 301st post!!!

Like I say in my about me - If you don't like exclamation marks, don't trouble Fhina's dolphin-door-knocker!

Anyhoo, today I'm in London - Did I hear you say, 'Again?!'

I could be anywhere when I have to go to London for work reasons - Really... I rise at a Godforsaken Darkened Hour, squish myself for over three hours on a freezingly air-conditioned train packed with businessmen shouting about how important they are, I disembark at King's Cross, crush into a Japanese style Rush Hour Cramtheminasmanyasyoucan Train, until I am jettisoned onto a work-rat-infested platform somewhere close to Big Ben...



I'm then sandwiched into a window- and air-less room somewhere in the bowels of the Government of the Day while people snarl their way through policy developments, sneer about how well they're doing and snark everyone off - I eat sandwiches with dry, curling crusts that stick in my throat and sink sadly to the bottom of my grumbly stomach and toss down a dark liquid that might at one time in its existence have been coffee and then I fall asleep full of stodge at what seems to be the conclusion of my usual eight hour-ish working day - I wish...

I sleepwalk through the afternoon's meeting and then I look forward to the pleasure of the whole journey in reverse, elbowing tourists, children and the weak and frail out of the way and I fight the morning's arrogant businessmen (all earning at least 12 times as much as me) for a seat on the train home...



Eventually, when it's dark once again, I attain the womb-like sanctuary that is Chez Fhina, I snarl at the Teenage Terrorist, grimace at GJ, eat something quick and non-wholesome that he shoves before my sniffing snout, tip myself into a vat of white wine (enjoy responsibly) and crawl into my pit, bolstered by soft animals in the form of two bats (one brown and smiling, one Hallowe'en Vampire species) and one rat (Dutch)...

Envy me? No! But I do know that I am lucky to have a job and my reasonable health and I'm not in the Armed Services somewhere fighting bravely for what seem like lost causes, and I do love lots of my job and every bit of my life that I share with you. It just all feels like a little too much on the run-up to Chrimbo, with my bad-bug virus still getting me down and wearing me to a wornfrazzle and the man-child hankering after Call of Duty 2 (sold out in a store near you) AND a car (because-he's-passed-his-driving-test-after-all-and-what-was-the-bleedin'-point-of-paying-all-that-money-to-put-him-through-his-test-when-we-won't-buy-him-a-car??!)

YIKES! Pass me a bit of cheese someone?

Like the Bold Beautiful Suldog says, 'Soon with more better stuff!'

In the meantime, maybe you could have a little bop to my son's favourite at the moment - Florence (and the Machine, re-mixed by The XX (apparently!)) re-doing Candi Staton's 'You Got The Love'...

A glimpse of the new costume drama from the BBC...

In spite of all that was making me cough and cry last week, this clip from Dame Beeb just made me laugh my Lulu Guinness, dachshund-printed cashmere socks off - I kid you not...

For those of you not familiar - Voici Armstrong and Miller, a comedy duo from the BBC... And I love Costume Drama made by the Beeb, and this, for me, sums up all that is good and great about Costume Drama and British Comedy.



Alexander Armstrong, the pianist in this clip, is the son of the gentleman who became my doctor when I first moved up into the Simonside Hills... Angus Armstrong retired a couple of years ago - And I miss his wonderfully sage counsel even now.

Still, it's good to know that Dr Armstrong's paying for piano lessons for Alexander all those years has been put to good use, non??!

I hope it makes you laugh today, mes bloggy smilers!

Excuses, Nooses, Mooses and Mother Gooses...

And, my excuse for not blogging much this week, you ask?

I have been ill - ILL, mes bloggy chip-butties!

Iller than someone very, very ill; Involving lots of lying in bed, not even managing to log on ~Yes, THAT ill!

And yet I still made it to London, under the considerable influence of medication for my madness, fortified by horse-pills and pints of the Black Stuff... I had to - I could hardly remain au lit, after investing so much money in our concert tix, our hotel (the Ibis at Wembley, not the Ritz for Fhina, I'm afraid...), and our train tix too... Scandalous!

Mind you, arriving gaspingly early at our nearby train station on Saturday, the day of the concert, and finding that no trains were stopping at that station that weekend nearly sent us into Fits of Apoplexy! Danged National Express selling us a ticket for a service that they'd cancelled!!! We hurtled back to the car with our small suitcase, GJ drove like a madman to Newcastle, I deliriously bunged a fiver's bribe to our friendly local car park attendant to keep an eye on the car for two days, and finally we boarded our scheduled train, panting and sweating like piglets...

We should have taken our chances on one of these -



And then after a wonderful weekend of coughs and pills, when we went here to Brown's in Covent Garden, and here to the atmospheric St. Pancras Station and here into the shadow of Scotland Yard at the Feathers in Westminster, as well as seeing the Band of My Dreams, I returned to work last week like a good 'un, and found work piling up for me in handy-sized, pillow-shaped, quantities... Yummmm... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......................

And so I find that, in Blogland, the river has rolled on, shimmering and whisper-wooshing, and you are all breathing and living (some are sniffing and coughing too, I know...), and I have missed more than I could possibly have dreamed. And you would not have wanted to share my lucid and hallucinogenic dreams this week at all, mes bloggy Florence Nightingales... Non.

One of my dreams was quite pleasant, I recall slightly - Involving the wondrously atmospheric world of La Stevie - Well, who else... The rest, you ask? The Stuff of Veritable Nightmares...

And now I finally feel as if I am rallying having slept until Stupid O'Clock Yesterday Afternoon. And the Throat from Hell is at last receding... And my Diclofenac Addiction no longer seems to warrant a trip Chez Betty... (Ford, as if you didn't know!)...



And I can get back to reading your dreams, catching up with your lives, marvelling at your stamina, and wondering what to do with my blog after so long asleep like a rather downmarket Snow White!

Mwah, mes bloggy Elves; Mwah les Dwarves... Mwah mes Wicked Witches of The West...

Well, it's Panto Season anon, non??! And I have been to London to visit the Queen, like Dick Whittington's Cat, after all... Mwah! Miaow!

~I have always been a storm...

Every night that goes between
I feel a little less
As you slowly go away from me
This is only another test

Every night you do not come
Your softness fades away
Did I ever really care that much
Is there anything left to say

Every hour of fear I spend
My body tries to cry
Living through each empty night
A deadly calm inside

I haven't felt this way I feel
Since many a year ago
But in those years and the lifetimes past
I did not deal with the road

And I did not deal with you I know
Tho' the love has always been
So I search to find an answer there
So I can truly win

Every hour of fear I spend
My body tries to cry
Living through each empty night
A deadly calm inside

So I try to say
Goodbye my friend
I'd like to leave you with something warm
But never have I been a blue calm sea
I have always been a storm
always been a storm
ooh always been a storm
I have always been a storm

We were frail

She said,
"Everynight he will break your heart"
I should have known from the first
I'd be the broken-hearted

I loved you from the start
Save us...
And not all the prayers in the world -- could save us

Shaking the Tree - Feminisme and Diversite!

Seeing as it's Firework and Bonfire Night, I thought I'd set off a sparkler of mine own!

Forgive me for speaking to my women readers, and I don't mean to alienate any of the chaps who drop by here, but we women still have much to learn and even further to go and grow in so many countries -- ...I mean in terms of changing lives, celebrating who we are and what we have achieved... We need to look out for others, and continue to strive for ours and others' rightful equality of opportunities...

We must never forget how far we have come... and how far we are yet to go, mes bloggy dames and desmoiselles... Et les messieurs aussi.

It is only just over a decade ago that I was in a job interview at the factory my sweet and funny, much-missed, late father worked in for most of his adult life, and the chauvinistic Personnel Manager, on hearing that my son was only 3 years of age, admonished me that women really should be in the home, and not in the workplace.

He told my dad that he hoped to have something for me in the future as he had been very impressed by my performance at interview! The cheek of the chauvinist swinehund!

Did you shake the tree today, this week, this month, this year, lassies and lads?

Bright Star - Keats' Letter to Fanny Brawne February 1820

I just discovered - Yeah, I'm something of a Culture Vulture, but occasionally I lag a little behind the times! - that Jane Campion (director of my belovedly cinematographic, The Piano) has set her sights on one of the greatest and most poignant love stories (to my mind) of all time...

That of John Keats and his one-time neighbour, Fanny Brawne. The film is called Bright Star, and I really long to go and see it.



Much has been writ about their love affair. It was controversial, with some of Keats' friends blaming Fanny for the illness (attributed at times to heartache) that carried him off... Fanny's family probably felt that Keats should be in a better financial position to marry their eldest daughter, so he worked feverishly on his writing and poetry, when his growing tuberculosis permitted, to enable himself to become a published (and paid!) author.

Given the social mores of the times, requiring courting couples to require a chaperone, often Keats could only get a glimpse of his love through a window, while she promenaded past the end of his garden of an evening...

His letters to her remain and, of course, his beautiful and revelatory poetry.

This letter offers, I feel, something of a tangible insight into their youthful feelings:

'My dearest Fanny,

I read your note in bed last night, and that might be the reason of my sleeping so much better. I think Mr Brown (Keats' best friend) is right in supposing you may stop too long with me, so very nervous as I am. Send me every evening a written Good night. If you come for a few minutes about six it may be the best time. Should you ever fancy me too low-spirited I must warn you to ascbribe it to the medicine I am at present taking which is of a nerve-shaking nature - I shall impute any depression I may experience to this cause. I have been writing with a vile old pen the whole week, which is excessively ungallant. The fault is in the Quill: I have mended it and still it is very much inclin'd to make blind es. However these last lines are in a much better style of penmanship thof [though] a little disfigured by the smear of black currant jelly; which has made a little mark on one of the Pages of Brown's Ben Jonson, the very best book he has. I have lick'd it but it remains very purplue. I did not know whether to say purple or blue, so in the mixture of the thought wrote purplue which may be an excellent name for a colour made up of those two, and would suit well to start next spring. Be very careful of open doors and windows and going without your duffle grey God bless you Love ! -

J. Keats-

P .S. I am sitting in the back room - Remember me to your Mother -'

P.S. (Fhina-Spoiler) Given their biographies, the film can't have a happy ending!