The lasting impression I have of Tom Hollander at the Cheltenham festival is fading, so I have the internet on, and have found the story about his train ride with Pamela Reed. My mind distills him on stage with nervous hiccups, in front of a man from the Oldie and several rows of plant waterers. Not just hiccups but little diaphragm burps, and story tracks of reasons why he isn’t an actual archbishop. The oldie probes to know about how executives work, and the weilds of humbly disguised dark powers. The series archbishop strains his chair and leans back at the principle.
The picture I take is from the front row; its quite far away, during a last request for him to whistle something that isn’t quite not Mozart. On leaving I review the option to rummage at the stage door, but the series manuals remind me I’m lust, and to continue on the friendless circuit.
A man leads me out to Rupert Everett in the other tent, signing books. Determination is a pliant noun, and respect orders me an early night without being blanked. Good is another departure thanked.
Knowing about being being in loved with, I set out for the Tory Conference in Birmingham the following day. The soundtrack in my enterprise car goes with Il Postino. I have determined to wear a ski suit, in order to not a look a whore, for all in mental health approach to press the spinach.
Why am I going?
Why did I leave?
The pianist of my career expects me, the interest protects me. I have to find Was and earn a pension. My main favourite walks past with smiling peripherals; tractor feature Oborne, unperturbed by mules. On a balcony mid floor, defending socks and sandals, the program counts me out to wait. An hour with Asia, or a thing on policy. Ahead invites everyone to Israel; canapes on tuesday. Sign up a meadow and drive the guide dog.