by My parents Skyped me this morning from the hotspot in Hampden. It was blowing a gale there; a purple and white flap-in-the-wind “Takeaways” sign was about to be unmoored until a member of staff came out to save it. Mum looked pissed off and washed out, and still far from fully recovered. Dad, who didn’t get Covid as badly as Mum, wore a more stoic expression. The line was much better than it normally is from there, and we spoke for 18 minutes. (Skype keeps a record.) On a call of that length there would normally be at least something to interrupt Mum’s gloom – a moment of levity – but this time there wasn’t the faintest ghost of a smile. I hate seeing them under so much stress, especially when so much of it (OK, maybe not the Covid bit) was avoidable. On the plus side they were away from home, that godforsaken place where building work is taking place at a glacial pace and right now they can’t even have a shower. They’d arrived in Moeraki a short time before, and I hope they spend a good few days down there. It would be great if they didn’t have to go back.
Dad and I talked about British Christmas. I’m so glad I decided not to make a trip to the UK for the festive season. For travelling and just being in the UK, it’s the most horrible time of the year, as Andy Williams might have sung 60 Christmases ago. If I had the prospect of a 6am flight and a bus trip from Luton and charades with my brother’s in-laws, my stomach would be churning right about now.
My lessons got cancelled this morning. Annoying for a bunch of reasons including lack of a bike ride, so I went for a walk. This place is big enough that I can still ramble down random streets and see things I haven’t clapped my eyes on before, such as this rustic-looking restaurant:
