Tuesday, April 30, 2019


Watching Midsomer Murders...a woman has been working on her book ms. for thirty years. Handwritten. Very large stack of papers.

At the end of the show, her friend, now a murderess, learns the book has been finished and sold for Pots of Money. The murderess asks what it's about...the writer smiles and states "US". Car rolls away taking the guilty to jail.

So, since they were apparently such great friends that someone could write a book about them, I wondered whether, since I have a best friend,and we've been through so many things together and separately, I could make a book out of our lives.

My part would be dead boring, outside of the odd operations, the kids, the husband, the 350 men I dated, but little else that would interest anyone.

My friend, however, has met Monte Rock. And Fabio.

She's come 'round to painting again, and she does have talent.
She has a husband and a son and now daughter in law.

But, there still doesn't seem to be much there worth a book that would sell.

Our memories are ours alone.

Should anyone ask about anything, both of us gladly regale them with stories. But they're small stories. Interesting, funny, sad, but in the larger scheme of life, small.

San, you know I love you dearly. Perhaps one day I will write a small book of our little stories, just for us, before my memory is completely gone.

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