still in London

Two of my best friends came down for the day to see me and to see the photo exhibition in the National Portrait Gallery of women writers. It was a little disappointing in one respect as it was so small. I imagined that it would have been much, much bigger. We had to walk through a labyrinth of other exhibits. I was annoyed a little at this because I had so little time but also fascinated by much of what I saw and resolved to go back next time I am in London.
The women writers all wrote so much and so well. I felt dwarfed. How does one continue to write when confronted by great ability and success.
I bought four postcards. One of Beatrice Potter who looks like the detective Miss Marple as played by Margaret Rutherford. One of Dorothy Hoskins of whom I know nothing but guess from the portrait that she was a writer as she is surrounded by books and papers. She looks like someone I would have liked to have known. One of Oscar Wild because I admire his wit and writing ability and anyone who dares to be different. The last of the four is of Sinead O'Connor who was adored by my best friend who died aged 42. She is incredibly beautiful. How many faces would survive without hair. Being completely bald seems to emphasise her beauty. She sits on my music stand on my piano and only noticed yesterday that she has her hands over her ears. Perhaps she moved them there when I began to play.
It was lovely meeting my friends in the flesh as we usually have to make do with texts, e-mailsand phone calls. And guess what we sometimes write letters.