Dave and Mog

A day full of sun and surprises.
David knocked on our door this afternoon and hand delivered a Muggi made from plastics recycled from the shoreline, thank you Garden Fairy. A former Army officer he has resettled in Cornwall and set up his own company producing a really handy device. It transpired he nearly completed the pilot's course at Middle Wallop; perhaps he should have worn trews, instead of a kilt while in training, but old habits die hard. He was in command of the soldiers who buried "H" Jones in the Falklands, a real privilege, so that the Paras could say goodbye to their Colonel. 
A visit to the Sickbay to collect my medication found me chatting up two of our neighbours; both of whom have become widowed since moving into our little street. Mog is a quintessential Yorkshire lass. Family loving, no messing around, hard as nails with a heart of gold. Both ladies shudder at my attempt to organise a renaming of our street to, "Widows Bottom," I have no idea why. 
I also met a mental health nurse. After a short chat, about 45 minutes, maybe an hour, we realised that both of us had other things to do and parted company but not before learning we knew more about mutual friends and places than we realised. Cindy was an Army brat. Her father served in Aden and Singapore, as did many of my friends. She knows one of them as she treated him post the Falklands. She became a QARNN, Queen Alexander Royal Naval Nurse and recognised my name; my sister had been a QARNN at the same time. On we went, trading experiences and places. A nurse in the sickbay, Sarah Jane, was also on The QE2 and knows my mates from 45 Commando. 
This is a tiny planet, as we both agreed.