I’ve always believed that British summer is a myth concocted by the Roman gods, but the summer of 2018 proved me wrong, wrong, wrong. It is ridiculously hot, hot, hot. And I didn’t bring the right clothes. I prepared for 20 degree weather; but it’s 30 degrees each day and I really wish I had packed my pretty summer floral dresses.
He was the patriarch. A gentle soul who was strict when he needed to be. I was loved. I was scolded. I was indulged. I was disciplined. Despite the distance, I received a card on every birthday – and a present every Christmas. No soul ever forgets what it feels like to love and be loved by another human being.
In some ways it is the same UK that I remember growing up. My cousins are all still here. I’m still close to the ones that I was close to as a child. They remember me and I remember them. They remember that I used to run around London by myself at the age of 16. It was my first taste of independence, freedom and… responsibility. I still know the streets, remember the food and know how to make my way around.