Joggers

Trotting past the window as I write, the Saturday joggers are out in force. When I lived in Camberwell, it used to be the religious double-decker, a red Routemaster with an open top driving down the New Road at a very early hour with Gospel singers joyfully roaring out the message at all the sinners who were lying in bed nursing their hangovers!
But here in tranquil Barnet, there are no saints and no sinners, just Folk Going About Their Business, Minding Their Own Business at the same time as Twitching Their Curtains (especially on the day when I went out in my fake leopardskin jacket looking tarty).
Had a very interesting day yeserday, high-speed, three slices of chocolate cake, singing songs and talking. We will do it again; it was very gentle and relaxed after we had got over our nerves.
Then Treacle and Charlotte came, friends from way back. We used to hang out so much together- the two of them, Little Claire, Ruth and myself. I could get us all in free to the Beat Route because I cut Stephen Mahoney's hair in a way that he liked ( he was going bald but I snipped his hair so he looked really good and he liked that). People used to say we looked like the mummy duck (me, tall) and the ducklings (them, small). We all dyed our hair black and used to scare away men by going round in a pack like that. We'd all get that night bus home that used to stop at the Kentucky Fried Chicken in Kilburn High Road, and then drop you off at the end of your street. Sometimes when we got back, we'd cook up a massive Spaghetti and eat it and just stay up most of the night talking. The following day, we'd all wake up at about 5 p.m., phone the Sophia, and get a chicken curry (plus feathers) sent up to the house. What joyous slobs we were. Beats jogging any day.