Today has been a 'boy day' on steroids. I must have seen at least 20 serious cuties on my travels, and it hasn't stopped yet - there are two in my 'not local but now regular' Wetherspoons, where I've recently arrived. The whole delightful company, though, pale into insignificance against the hour I spent on a bus heading towards Heathrow in the early afternoon. For pretty much the whole journey, I was sitting about three paces away from one of the most beautiful boys I've ever seen. 11, give or take, shaggy, wavy fair hair to his collar, blue eyes, lovely face. But there was more than simply the superficial to him. I was close enough not to have been able to avoid hearing the conversation he was having with his dad, and it was obvious that not only was he more than bright, but that he also had several interests in common with me - and a hint or two of boyish 'naughtiness', in 'that' way, too. In short, as close as I could ever reasonably expect to my perfect boy. I was utterly smitten, almost to the point of tears when he got off the bus at Harlington Corner. Because, of course, there's no chance, in any remotely conceivable circumstances, that I'll ever see him again, still less be able to count him as a friend. To borrow two thirds of a Nabokov quote, 'adoration, sorrows'.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
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