Where is that Omelette?

I was thinking about the poem I put in my blog yesterday - (memo to BlogSoundEffects.com:  Please supply the sound of two brain cells whirring round a vast empty space, colliding, and producing a thought).   Captaiin Butterfly and I were talking about it -  I had better add the poem again:

A War
by Randall Jarrell

There set out, slowly, for a Different World,
At four, on winter mornings, different legs...
You can't break eggs without making an omelette
- That's what they tell the eggs.

We were wondering why he inverted the usual "You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs."  We thought maybe it was get us to think a bit more about what has become a cliche.   And it does - "that is what they tell the eggs".   Off you go, young men. You are going to be broken to make a wonderful omelette.

All those young men (on both sides) who died in the horrors of the trenches in WW1, died to fight "the war to end wars" - a war so terrible there could never be another one.

So. many many eggs were smashed, but where is that omelette?

I seem to have spent a lot of Thursday and Friday trying to get through to the surgery to arrange for my next couple of blood tests - the blood sugar one being months overdue. Finally I got a ringing tone - and a voice telling me I was 9 thousands in the queue or thereabouts. I walked about holding the phone, did some housework, and made a jelly for supper while I was waiting.  But I did finally get through to a very nice young lady in Reception and the appointment is made. And I now just hope I will be able to have it before the next lockdown (should there be one).

The crowds on beaches over the last few days have been alarming - and very messy. It is much cooler today and we have had a little, much needed, rain.

I could have called this blog:  I Had a Dream of Mailboxes, as I had a strange and vivid dream last night in which I realised I had not visited our mailbox for years. True, as we left our expat life and mailbox 11 years ago.  I rushed off to a place very like our local library - all shiny and new, not too many books, but quite a few mailboxes. I couldn't find our box, so a kind young lady helped me. She took me to a desk on which lots of folders were piled up. And there was mine. It contained a piece of junk mail and an old book called "Fifty Kinds of Amber", with a pretty picture of something Ambery on the front.  I felt guilty for not thanking whoever had sent it to me all those years ago. And also for not witnessing to the young dream librarian who helped me...

What was that all about?

Maybe it was a kind of guilt that I did not witness to the very friendly young receptionist the doctor's surgery - but I knew how busy they are coping with all this so I must admit it did not even occur to me.

The human brain is a strange and amazing thing - even in the decrepit state that I am in now.