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Friday, January 29, 2010

I got back this morning, flew in overnight from nairobi, had that strange sense of de ja vous you get when you haven't been home for a while, can still see the image of my street from my memenory, sometimesf rom my dreams, aand now agian in reality, rounding the corner in a cab, the northern dawn of the northern hemisphere exciting me laced as it is with fresh rain. Lucy is in my bed so i camp out on the sofa, finally able to stretch out properly i tuck under my goose down jacket, my duvet. Later, when Lucy has gone, I climb into my own bed, clean sheets and freshly showered, no insects are trying to bite me and everything is clean. I lie with my eyes closed and the sunshine after the rain presses itself against the blinds. I listen to the sounds of the street, cars going by on tarmacced roads and school kids talking and laughing. These children are free to speak, to walk and it is such a basic freedom, one that we may take forgranted but it is missing elsewhere in the world, pressure pushes out freedom to be. England; how lucky we are.

I was still thinking about it when I succumb to the lure of a box of terry's dark chocolate assortment; I tucked into a a cappucinno intigue and then a strawberry bloom, all the while feeling a sense of guilt around my rather expanded midline and wondering when did the simple chocoalte aquire such ridiculous names, I then ate a burnished nut brulee and then another Cappucino Intrigue just for good measure. Bang goes the suger free diet I thought, washing it all down with a generous double expresso - bang goes the caffeine free diet too...

I am quick to excuse my guilt as am late for a the hairdresser. Tonight a burns night celebration, so my transition from dust-cat back to girl begins...

Whilst cycling, (fooled by the sunshine -I had totally underestimated how bloody cold it is here)- my finger tips burning, I had eschewed gloves and was bitterly regretting it. I thought about the wonderful, breath biting cold, the traffic and the opulence of holland park. In my head I started to design a burkha trouser suit - the perfect practical attire for a woman wishing to ride her bike through the streets of Kabul.

Arriving late at the hairdressers, the place is hectic, heaving with holland park lovies having their highlights retouched, - I find myself deeply engrossed by an "asian wedding magazine" and find healthy tips on how to integrate into your husbands family whether it's an arranged-match or a love-match and how not to expect too much on the sex front - love, respect and understanding is the top tip, and I can't diagree with that. I find myself planning my elaborate wedding sari and am deep in this fantasy when my t-section time is up and I'm ushered to the sinks for a rinse. I am massaged to within an inch of my life and almost wish for it to stop when my man asks if I'm ok and I nod in a very British way, not wishing to offend - in response I am treated to another excruciating minute of overvigorous head massage and I'm cursing our slavish British following of politeness...

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