Roll up, roll up! The box of calendars arrived today, and was opened a short time ago, and with minimal ceremony by Celia, who pronounced the contents good.
If you would like to buy one leave a comment here and I’ll contact you by email. They cost £8, plus £2.50 P&P for the UK. I need to check the overseas postage charge, but as it is only early November, it should be possible to use surface mail and still have them by January.
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Two of my aunts have birthdays this weekend. Both are Mother’s younger sisters. On Saturday, Aunt, who lives relatively near Mother and visits her as often as she can, turns ninety. The baby of the family, Aunt-in-Belfast, is a mere eighty-six on Sunday. I am feeling quite pleased with my organisation. Flowers will be delivered to the remaining sibling, Mother’s adored younger brother. He and she are only eleven months apart and were like twins. She still talks about her brother, though she hasn’t seen him for several years now. She had two more brothers, but Brother is the one she loved and loves jealously. He will take them to Aunt-in-Belfast who is very bad at answering the door. He has a key.
So much for the glamour of air travel. The wind whipped the rain cruelly across the backs of my calves as I walked the hundred or so yards across the tarmac.Yet this morning the sun shone and I sat in the garden grooming Westie Boy. Back at the airport, there was a queue on the steps to the plane. My hand on the rail longed to be inside a warm glove. The man in front of me swung his bag. If I hadn’t ducked I’d have been knocked out, maybe stretchered off to A&E at The Royal. Cousin unknowing, back in her house, imagining me safe in London.
Consolingly, once aboard I got my favourite seat at the front, by the window and escape hatch. The stewardess warned me I might get wet knees on take off when the water would run back into the plane. She was right. I forgave the toddler behind me for kicking my seat when I heard her excited voice as we rose over Belfast; “I can see the whole world!” Her accent was English. “Can you see Granny’s house?” asked her mother. They were an echo of how we must have been when we travelled to Ireland years ago; my mother’s country Derry accent contrasting with her two Home Counties bred children; how obvious we were visiting her family; how dépaysée she would have sounded In Surrey. Continue reading
Isobel (and Cat)'s Blog 