Dearest middle-aged mammals,
I am coming to you this evening from the city of angels at nearly bedtime. Bedtime! My 61 y.o. self needs to recline in bed with a book after a day spent with 29 young mammals. For the past few weeks I have wanted to send you a post card. Miniature size. With only a handful of pictures. To let you know the cottage of Moss and its inhabitants are fine and dandy. My plan is to write much less, much more often. Loosely stitched together ideas without topic sentences, an introduction, or conclusion. You know, like I usually do, only shorter. Experiments in being brief.
Sister and my Cotswold trip draws ever closer.
I’m needlepointing a small sheep to sew onto the cover of my travel journal.
I’m shopping for waterproof shoes.
I wear wigs now. Which means I’m drawing wigs. I’m not ill. Pictures to follow in the next postcard.
It’s cloudy, 56 degrees, and the moon is a waning gibbous.
I think of you often and send many mental transmissions. I hope you’ve received them.
The end.