We are having a wonderful time in England, but I am also so much longing to getting home to Toronto. And its not only home, but a brand new home. Well, brand new for us. The house is actually eight years old.
Today is Catherine's birthday. She is closing in on sixty, but it does not seem strange when my mother calls her a "girl". My nephew's in-laws have joined us for the weekend and they are staying in a quite pleasant large bed and breakfast at the top of the hill, near Neptown, where years ago I fantasised about buying an abandoned house. It is very windy up there, with a perfect long view of the Downs. The windows of the house were all missing, so it would have been quite a reno. The present value of the house, even with the recent down-turn, is just scary.
Anyway the in-laws have gone to Pareham and Cathy and I are alone with my mother and Gareth. He, my industrious brother, is cooking up a storm for what he calls "a late lunch" at six! I, like a rat, have to work round him to steal what my growling stomach can be assuaged with. The weather is unseasonably cold and cloudy and , yet again, we will have to eat in the tent.
For the first time this holiday I made our bed as a present. I don't know how she has done it so often, as I had to lie across the bed to straighten her side which is up against the wall. Even my side only has half a foot between the bed and the other wall. My old duvet would have been much easier.