....it was tomorrow, after all. Because a couple of things did catch my attention. A campaigner, with a #BACKZAC (Goldsmith, the fascist Tory candidate for London mayor, spawn of a billionaire robber baron, just the sort of 'man of the people' we really need running the capital's local government) tee-shirt, proclaiming her message in the broadest American accent imaginable. Is she even likely to be eligible to vote in this week's mayoral election? I doubt it somehow. The phrase 'mind your own fucking business' sprung to mind.
A quarter of an hour earlier, though, my tenuous equilibrium had been tested to its limits, as I left 'worktown' on a bus via a thoroughly posh area, and where I was confronted by a cutie who was a close lookalike not only of a boy, but the boy, as I remember first seeing him, at 9 (the approximate age of today's little guy). DBJ, of course. It will be ten years, at the end of August, since that unforgettable first view of the most beautiful boy in the world, at least in my experience. And my memories of him still affect me as deeply as ever.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
A quarter of an hour earlier, though, my tenuous equilibrium had been tested to its limits, as I left 'worktown' on a bus via a thoroughly posh area, and where I was confronted by a cutie who was a close lookalike not only of a boy, but the boy, as I remember first seeing him, at 9 (the approximate age of today's little guy). DBJ, of course. It will be ten years, at the end of August, since that unforgettable first view of the most beautiful boy in the world, at least in my experience. And my memories of him still affect me as deeply as ever.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
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