Fancy That

Someone I know is going to London. Someone I admire. Someone I - what's that? Oh, right. That someone is me. I'm so glad you pointed that out. Other someones are going, too. I'm letting hubby join me. I'm generous that way. Then there's the much-missed someone. The wandering, haggis-eating youngest Jew, gone six weeks, but who's counting, currently roaming the Lake District, behaving like a Certified Nature Boy. He'll meet us at the hotel, whereupon I shall smother him with ridiculous amounts of love and affection as only a mother can. Now then, if you're doing your math properly, you'll notice we're up to three someones. But oh, oh, oh, wait, there are more someones I'm related to, genetically and affectionately, on the London horizon. Brother John will be there. Cousin Andy and his lovely wife Allison will be there. Well, spank my arse and call me Ye Olde SJG, that's three more someones to keep track of and lavish affection on, lavishly.  By now you're asking yourself, coinky-dinky? Or well-planned family confab that took years to arrange? Total freakin' coinky! And yet, one question remains. What if I hit my affection limit at four someones? What if I run out of petrol, symbolically speaking? Oh pleez. Fat chance. I'm royally endowed with extreme, endless fondness for the afore-mentioned peeps. I'll do just fine. Unless I lose them all in a crowd. Whereupon I will panic and need medical attention. Thus ends Tuesday's blog. I still need to pack.