Stone donkeys and model aircraft ...

Last week, I had lunch at Haskins, a garden centre on the outskirts of Bournemouth - I was with my friends from Semi Colons - we meet once a month to celebrate our survival from cancer -

I had been very happy to give Jean a lift in the wounded red Peugeot - Jean is in her eighties - her grace and charm refresh my soul - being with Jean is like bathing in a tranquil shining river - 

I love hearing Jean's stories - sailing on her daughter's yacht in the breezy Carribean, off the BVI - trying out Tai Chi in a Beijing park - 

I wandered happily around the vast garden centre, delighting in the displays of statuary, the delicate cities of summer houses - 

I was very interested in the rows of stone donkeys - perhaps we could place one of those grave guardians upon the lawns of The Old School House - 

I took the opportunity to visit Hobbycraft, located across the car park - 

At the back of the packed hanger, I came across shelves of plastic kits - there, in cardboard boxes, were the tiny plastic bones that became Sherman Tanks, The Golden Hind or Fairey Swordfishes - the lids of the boxes were decorated with  pictures of doomed bombers, mighty battleships tormented by fighter planes, gaudy galleons locked in combat - 

I remembered, all at once, how I'd bought such kits as a wide eyed boy - I could smell, once more, the intoxicating scent of the glue -

I'd got my dad to hang the model of a Lancaster from my bedroom ceiling - at night, I'd stare upwards from my narrow bed -  I'd hear the low roar of engines, the voices of young pilots - parachute flares lit up the wardrobe -