Week 41: Coming home
So I’ve been in England. I was supposed to see an author, but that fell through after I’d got here. No worries. I had plenty of work to do, and I stayed with my mum and we had a high old time in spite of mostly grey skies and a cutting, cold wind that could take your breath away. Our daily routine included delivering imprecations to a hard-working mole under my mother’s front lawn. As the mounds of soil continued to pile up, a neighbour suggested stuffing the holes with pee-soaked rag. Moles, apparently, hate human smells. Mum decided this was infra dignitatem, even though there was no suggestion that they be soaked in situ. Yesterday the mole stopped digging, so it looked like the imprecations worked.
Time came for the long coach trip to London and the train to Gatwick. The coach driver turned from a placid sort to an angry cursing one as he arrived in the city. He clearly loathed the place. At one point he stopped the bus to tell a tourist taking photos that she should round up her children, who were wandering into the road, before they got run over. It seemed a fair point. I conceded it to him when I got off. ‘I ’ate London,’ he said. ‘Nobody here’s got any compassion for anyone else.’ And if all you saw of London was its road traffic and its careless pedestrians, that is probably what you would think. The Gatwick express wasn’t running when I got there (‘someone hit by a train’ the announcement said, a tragedy that clearly moved no one, further proving the coach-driver’s point). But I had plenty of time to spare, so I went into town where I squeezed in a morselette of clothes shopping and some white wine in a favourite wine bar, and reminded myself that London had been my home for a long time and in many ways I was still partial to it.
But what I really want is to get home to where I now live, the place I love and missed so much while I was away. I can hardly wait to get there (photos by Husband).