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Peter Panned: The Peter Pan Statue in Kensington Park

Before my husband and I visited London in May of last year (2017) I spent Fridays taking a virtual walk of the city, sharing what I learned via my friend google in a weekly post called Above Ground on the London Underground. That’s when I first visited Peter Pan in Kensington Garden.
At the time Joy, fellow blogger and host of British Isles Friday commented that she found the Peter Pan statue difficult to photograph. After visiting the statue for myself, I can only say, No kidding! I couldn’t get a really good shot either. But I wonder, does the fault rest with the photographer or the subject?

J.M. Barrie commissioned the statue from Sir George Frampton and secretly had it installed in Kensington Park—without permission—in the middle of the night, as if Tinkerbell herself had flown it into place. 

According to the announcement J.M. Barrie himself had published in the Times  ...
“There is a surprise in store for the children who go to Kensington Gardens to feed the ducks in the Serpentine …

I’ll drink to that

I’m sick to death of writing about myself. I’m sick to death of my writing. It’s one and the same. I cant write fiction. Ive tried. Its just another story about me, supposedly incognito as a brunette instead of a blonde—a bottle blonde, at that. 
Thats this weeks excuse for not carrying on with my story about Derek. But really, do you even know or care who Derek is? Some boyfriend I had when I was twenty? Or was it nineteen? Is there a point?
Right now Im feeling like Richard Harris singing McCarthurs Park —

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no
I usually relish disappearing into my girlish headspace, settling back into the mushy comfort of memory but Im feeling too old and too cranky to even try. The cosmetics company that lured me into thinking I could erase my sixty two years with their magic cream insists on charging me $85 for a product that left me precisely 62.9 years old and looking every month of it. My ears are plugged, my back hurts, and it feels like the bear from the Revenant is sitting on my stomach. 
 It could be worse, I could be feeling like Richard Harris in A Man Called Horsehanging from hooks piercing my nipples. 

Its not a complete wash out, I learned on twitter that today is #NationalMargaritaDay. Whats an old girl like me to do but drink to it? 

IF you are interested in a boy called Derek, there’s a half dozen pieces filed under the Men tab. 



  1. I enjoy your writing! I'm also right there with you about some of my endeavors and feeling despairing of myself and how old I look. Thanks for the honest company.


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