My mother passed a silver St Christopher necklace onto my daughter this week before the latter left for London. My own grandmother made a similar gesture when I left England as a 10 year old. Since Wednesday, our Skype messages and brief video conversations have centred around the Tate Modern, Camden markets and various attributes of cafes in Shepherd’s Bush. Our daughter tells us that skies are always grey in England.
Not like here, is what she implies. It’s true. In contrast, our wintry cloudscapes appear ethereal, like this captured in Fremantle last July:
Since we will be meeting up in Paddington on Monday (our flight to Doha departs in less than 9 hours and luggage fill our bedroom), my headspace is very much occupied with future evolving. I hold tight to metaphoric blue skies.
This morning’s frenzied map-printing traces the journey we will undertake next week from Shrewsbury to Market Drayton where my 90 year old grandmother still lives.
From the glam rock era of our escape in the 1970s – and largely due to my dad’s eclectic pre-emigration music taste – this song lurks on my mp3 player:
More good driving music, especially when contending with 100 km/h highways and the daily challenge of overtaking roadtrains in a 4 cylinder hatch. As thrilling as my current sense of anticipation…
Home is where I want to be,
pick me up and turn me round…
I guess I’m already there (Talking Heads, 1983).