Got the babysitter again. The kids didn’t frighten her too much. Always a good thing. The pair of us headed into downtown Thame, check out the local hostelries. Found a local pub that smells and looks like an old B&B in the inside. Carpeted, with flowery wallpaper and lino in the ladies. Perfect. Reminded us of one we used to frequent when we lived just off The Curragh of Kildare. Them were the days. Pints on a Sunday afternoon, pre-children. Met a man who informed us that WB Yeats used to live in Thame, same man knew one of the Fureys (as in ..& Davey Arthur). We supped and put the world to right, as you do.
The auntie nuns are coming to visit from Chiswick. ‘What’ll we do with them for the day’ Himself says, ‘Better get a nice packet of biscuits, instead of those nursing home ones in the press’. These are no ordinary nuns, fluent in two or three languages and have many a story to tell about Uganda, Dubai and London. They are good company and love the chat. The Notting Hill Carnival is mentioned so that’s our plan for the next day. So we take the train to Marleybone. There is an announcement that there will be no delays. I thought that’s the way trains were supposed to run, on time, without delays. Go figure. ‘How many more trains’ the three are shattered already, the Tube no longer a novelty.
Notting Hill Carnival is a celebration off all things Caribbean, the streets of Kensington alive with the sounds and smells of reggae and jerk chicken. The kids sit on the footpath getting stuck into a 99. ‘Mum, will ya stop’ the Middle pleads. ‘Stop what’, ‘Stop dancin’. I’m given it socks to the tunes, like a mix of Caribbean bootie shakin and seanos. ‘I’m not dancing, I’m just movin to the music’. ‘Ya, exactly’ she says, ‘please stop’. Yes, I have reached that stage in my life where it is my duty and honour to embarrass my children in public. They ain’t seen nothin yet!
No comments:
Post a Comment