Today, to Guildford, to see cousin Peter and cousin-in-law Kate - the other Kate Flint (a fact of nomenclature that really troubled my mother, for some reason, but that amuses me endlessly - I love getting a photo of her new puppy, say, that seems to have come from me). This is a misleadingly sparse photo, taken right at the end of a meal that, I promise you, contained a great deal more indulgence than the crumpled tablecloth and empty glasses suggest at first glance.
England already seems to be going into full-on Christmas mode: brass band playing carols on Waterloo Station; a very large snowman wandering down the concourse; decorations everywhere. This includes windows above a kebab shop in Oxford Street (Oxford Street? On a Saturday before Christmas? Yes, it's a sure sign of a visiting expat of a certain age and with well established habits, I suspect, that at some point during her trip she'll head off to M&S to renew her supply of socks and underwear).
What I am not used to is the army of cycle rickshaws that now pedals around Central London, festooned in neon, and blaring out music from their boom boxes: Christmas music, of course, but also Funky Town, and I Want To Dance with Somebody. With apologies for the bad focus ... Oxford Street was, in fact, an ordeal. I know I've probably shrunk an inch since my tallest, but I swear that the average height of everyone in England has increased by six inches during the same period. People literally don't see me, because they're on their phones ten inches above my head. I think I should move somewhere where people are my height, like Oaxaca. Or Leeds.
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