If you ever get the chance to fly 12 hours in a cramped and manky metal tube to a wintry city on the other side of the globe to meet your 9-day-old niece for a week, grab it by the scruff of the neck, bolt some sedatives for the flight, pack your raincoat and get there.
It is hard to describe the thrill of holding little Abigail in my arms. Of all the clever things Em and Al have done in their lives, this has to take the cake. Passing their matric geometry papers pales into insignificance. And we all know that is a Herculian feat. I mean honestly, I had to restrain myself constantly from chewing on her ear, elbow or foot (or any part that was exposed, actually). How do you like the pic of her 90-year old great-grandfather giving her a cautious cuddle?
Back in sunny Oxford and writing from my favourite Mark's-working-again-so-I-better-do-some-marking spot, Cafe Coco on Cowley Road. 'Bacon Boy', as he is affectionately known in our abode, has kept the home fires burning successfully for a week and that bacon keeps rolling in to satisfy budget requirements.
Our flight to New York is booked for 28 July and our conversation of late seems to veer towards which gas stove is best for use in Yellowstone National Park or whether to spend 3 or 5 weeks in Alaska. Tee hee. Lucky fishes we. (Please excuse my ancient Celtic grammar. Obviously influenced by all the antiquity around me in this town.)
R
PS Where have you all gone? Comments always welcome!
