My love is like a red, red…

Robert Burns, regarded as Scotland’s national bard, wrote his poem likening his love (one of many, as Rabbie was something of a lover of the ladies) to a red, red rose. But in these modern days of technology, when we indulge in a bit of nostalgia by collecting memorabilia and junk from the past, and when we perhaps equate love with something different than what many might see as a hackneyed and mushy red rose, I wondered what other items our love might be compared with. So here goes.

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Quietly buzzing

I’m sure I’ve been inside before. I must have…surely. Yet I can’t remember when. And the vague memory flitting round my mind isn’t borne out by the interior. I’ve heard it said that visitors often know places better than local people, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this were true. So much of our surroundings we take for granted, and if we have visited once, small hand clutching the larger hand of parent or grandparent, we somehow never get round to visiting again.

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