1001 And One Nights

It's Mothering Day in England this Sunday and the florists are busy.  The lovely Miss P., needs some distraction from the many men who visit her shop and the orders she's busy filling in vintage trophies and bowls. So, like Scheherazade, I shall tell a tale.

Miss Pickering wants to hear more about the olden days, and especially  more about the goat.  Luna was the goat's name. Surely her very name gives you a clue to the life I was leading.  Unless you were floating around a ghost town with a tiny gold star in your nose and flowing skirts, eating masses of brown rice and vegetables you probably wouldn't name your goat Luna.  You might not even have a goat or a dog named Chutney.  You probably wouldn't indulge in smoking various herbs or drinking teas made from cacti.
 

You probably wouldn't travel to Indian reservations with a long haired dentist who traded his services for rugs, blankets and said cacti.  Or fall off a horse in front of an entire tribe, who never cracked a smile. At least not in front of you.

And I don't think you would have run off  to Seattle with 3 friends who were on a carrot juice fast and turned a little more orange every day. Well, you may have, but you would have left a note.

When you got bored with their diet you might not have left them and hitchhiked through the abandoned mountain towns of Nevada, to arrive at the Renaissance Festival in California.  And, you possibly may not have gotten homesick and left the musicians and goldsmiths and wine drinking denizens behind to flee back to Jerome. 

But if you were me you might have done all this and more. 

Reading this in the cold light of day I'm left to wonder: am I the only formerly wild child now living happily in blogland with her collection of vintage Hermes scarves  and her compost pile?