Betty and the husband person caught the bus into town on Sunday. It was awfully nice. First off, Betty wore a funny hat – always a liberating experience. A young and honest friend at church greeted her with an enthusiastic, “You’re a baker!”
Afterwards, B and HP walked around the viaduct, and then sat for a while on the seats at the end of Queen’s Wharf. At least I think so. The one with the Cloud on it.
The tall building at twelve o’clock is practically Betty’s home. Or work, at least. Then the duo wandered through Britomart, made the obligatory duck into Lululemon (the husband person likes the reassurance of being asked if he understands the sizing) and Coucou and Made, and then went to Victoria Park for the next bus.
Betty returned home with tingly feet, salty lungs, a sample of Christopher Brosius’s Russian caravan tea on her left wrist and Jo Malone plum blossom on her right (both very nice), slightly muddy toes, and a hungry tummy. And she napped excellently. And behold, it was very good.