Monthly Archives: August 2016

celtic popquiz

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Sitting in the queue at immigration far too early one Saturday morning – actually yesterday, waiting for Jonah’s new green card to come through, feeling slightly jaded after a fun night out. As we sit heavy-lidded on the yellow bucket seats in that very odd immigration centre, Mr PartlyCloudy and I while away the time by reviewing the previous night’s very fun social shenanigans at a post-summer drinks night full of Scottish food and nice wine. We’d got chatting to a lovely couple, one of whom had asked me:

“Now then, what do you call someone who’s from Cornwall?”

To be fair it was rather an odd question, so instead of stating the obvious (“Cornish”) the best answer I could give was “Morwenna”. Much hilarity ensued, and if the lighting had been better I think this would’ve been one of those rare moments when the usuallly rather smooth Mr PC could be found blushing.

Fast-forward back to our hungover Saturday morning queue and Jonah asks what all the sniggering’s about, so we try out the question on him.

First answer: “Grandpa”
Second attempt: “Farmer”

Mr PC rubs away the tears and with a sigh checks the slow-moving ticket numbers on the screen: “I might see if I can put in for a new family”

Back in the room

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Someone who shall remain nameless suggested, as I complained my way through the packing at the end of this year’s summer trip to England, that I should’ve sorted out our sons’ school shoes at some time during the “holidays”. How I laughed. At what point might I have found the time?
I write this on my first afternoon back in Singapore. I’ve had dinner out, done a morning at work, had lunch out (#lazylah) and, yes, bought those s*dding school shoes.
Thing is, there was a time when long-term expats would explain to me why they never did home visits any more. They’re tough. You zig-zag from picnic to pub, taking up people’s floor space with your exploding suitcases, refusing and then accepting endless puddings, having hurried farewells as you kiss the growing children on the top of their summer holiday heads and then waking up the next day and doing it all over again. Five weeks, five different beds, a million kisses goodbye and then a flight back through the night, holding back the inappropriate homesick tears at the end of the supposedly funny film on the flight, before hitting the heat of the taxi stand and having the first of a string of sleepless nights as your body struggles to right itself once more.
That’s the negative version. I concur, to a point, but I still think there is massive mileage in going back and seeing all those friendly faces, drinking all those cups of proper tea, getting all those bearhugs. The visit gives us all a large dose of happiness that stays in the system for a long time. Our 2016 version went a bit like this:
Cool air, late twilights, high blue skies, cups of proper tea, trees to climb, lawns, bacon, M&S deli, favourite old toys, trains, DELAYS, traffic, sirens, ROADWORKS, pub grub, festival fun, beach huts, car trips, park life, baths, chewing gum, fudge, familiar faces, bear hugs, gossip, scandal, the odd bit of appallingly bad news, more picnics, more bear hugs, much inexpensive but delicious wine, bus stop chats with strangers, thrift shop bargains, clouds that don’t burst, plates that are hot, more trains, washing up in old family sinks, neighbours who love you, kids playing nicely, curiously pleasing smelling laundry tabs, butter that doesn’t melt, more bloody ROADWORKS, intravenous familiarity and lots of love.

This year’s tune-to-wash-up-to, a bit tacky, goes to a hot road trip back from the lavender fields with Isabel, Chris, Cam and Georgie. Press play and clear the kitchen.

See you next time, Blighty

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