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Old World

So I'm busy booking a trip to Italy. Venice, Florence and Rome are on the agenda. I finally got to Paris two years ago and now Italy. Time to knock some of these destinations off my list before my knees and hips go. And I have a lovely travel companion with good knees. I've warned him I'll sob my way through Italy simply because of the light alone.

I find myself sobbing a lot these days. Maybe it's because I'm in the midst of becoming anti depressant free, but a firefly in my back yard or a strain of Ron Sexsmith or a word of kindness can take me down right now. I'm sixty but I feel twenty one inside. And I cut my own hair this week. My bangs to be exact, which always worries my sisters.

My garden is bursting. I even have baby zucchini I'm checking twelve times a day like a mother hen. My five year old grandson gave me a full on lecture about everything he knows about the difference between slugs and turtles. Apparently slugs don't have armour and I guess I don't either. Hopeless.

I'm about to paint my dining room a deep colour which I seriously hope is a shade or two rosier than terra cotta which I did five houses and twenty years and a husband or two ago. The colour swatch is called Old World.

I'm excited. And if it's not quite right, I can repaint it until I get it right.

In the meantime, while I'm laying awake in the middle of the night, I can fantasize about Michelangelo and Caravaggio and Pizza Bianca and practicing "Dolce far Niente".

And it's probably a good thing security won't let me travel with scissors.

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