Life for Lola

Had rather a splendid weekend, did a bit of life laundry and threw out clothes which I no longer need. I am usually optimistic but knew I'd never again fit into my lovely 501's that have been in the cupboard for two years. Out they went, along with a hundred weight of hoarded magazines. I pulled out cupboards and hoovered the dust. I know now why the D-Day soldiers couldn't talk about what they had seen, I am speachless about the horror beneath the bed. I dare say, in sixty years time I shall be able to tell a great nephew about it.

Yesterday I went to IKEA and ended up in the National Gallery by way of Waterloo Bridge. It was a nice diversion. I had always fancied being a guard in a gallery. To sit beneath the Nation's art treasures and quietly watch people come and go, feel the draft as another Japanese girl with a huge grin gasped at the beauty of the Renaissance. That was until yesterday. Once of the guards was sorting out his lottery numbers instead of keeping a watchfull eye over the pastoral scenes. I felt sad that, what I thought was a dream job, was just as dull as all the others.