Cowart's Common Room
. . . or, a contradiction in terms, you might say, larks being associated more with morning and when not with morning then with foolishness: what larks! people say in stories written in the 1930s and those a generation later might describe a folly as 'larking about.' You think it would be the other way about but it isn't - no one I think ever larked about before about 1950, life being much too serious. Still 1950 was a very long time ago now and we are nearer to 2050, which I suppose, I won't see, though I might if I were to live as long as that Italian egg eating lady who lived to 117 or was it 116? A long time she lived that last person born in the 1800s. She might have had a mother who drove ambulances at Waterloo. To which I have been and which is well worth a visit, though everything there is in French and all about Napoleon. Rather like going to the Normandy beaches and finding everything in German. Mind you it is in German as well as French and English and maybe these days in esoteric languages too. Gosh, I have quite forgotten what I wanted to write about: it has been that sort of day, hammer and tongs since daybreak and now too tired to do anything and yet I must do some piano practice. I have eight label orders on my pad and another two pending, plus work for the Charter Trust and the Town Twinning. I am worn to a ravelling, or should it be an unravelling?
Anyway that is all from the Lark - sweet dreams and soft sleep, beautiful dreams of unicorns and black golfs with speedy engines. Take care good people and may you be well-preserved from all the perils and dangers of things that go bump in the night