Back in the U of K

It’s taken me some time to settle down. To write this. Not to settle down here. That is always quite a tidy step. A recognition. A language. A pattern of behavior that I know and I fit back into. I know how to negotiate my way around. To ask for help. To find my way. I don’t stand out. I don’t sound like a stranger. Even though I haven’t been here since before the onset of Covid. This is wintertime. The days of gloves always being in the pockets of coats. Collars that come up around your ears. Scarves that can be pulled up over chins. It is still a time for masks. The virus still meanders it’s way through crowded places. The carriages on the underground are still packed like sardines at peak hours and being tucked into someone’s armpit takes on more meaning in these days of covid. It took me a little time to get my bank card. “ we’ll send it to your home address.” “ No, please don’t.” Because people tap here with their cards. Instant payments abound. In shops, on the street. Most of the check-outs in supermarkets are for card only. Then when I got the card, the last bit of alienation went away. I moved in the flow of the Brit. That river of people who own and work and play in Britain. When people ask me how long I have been living away, I lie. Truly, it is longer than the entire lives of some of the people who are asking me the question. How would they understand the figure 25. And, actually, I am still lying. I have walked endlessly around streets on the open ended journey from one tube stop to another. I have jumped on buses careful to sit where I can see the oncoming streets because my bearings are not what they used to be. I have crossed commons, I have kept to the paths in parks. I have bought the newspaper on a Saturday and been so excited that I even looked at the sports section. I have eaten an egg and cress sandwich from Marks and Spencers. I have drunk a half of cider. I have sat in the velvet theatre seats of the west end and watched a curtain rise. I have sat in the carpet seats of the national and seen the lights go down and up. I have stood in a returns queue outside the Almeida Theatre on Upper Street knowing I wouldn’t get a seat, but just couldn’t tear myself away from the possibility of insane good luck. I have stood on the tube train, I have sat down on the tube train. I even made sure I did a trip on the new Elizabeth line where the seats and the platforms are bright and shiny and the miles go by in minutes. I like nothing better than to stand under the huge curved glass ceilings of the train stations where the big purring animals, the big boys of the train world begin their journeys. The feeling as they slide, almost soundlessly, away from the platforms into the world of back gardens, over bridges, to the green countryside where they slice through fields and the edge of small towns and villages, remains as thrilling as it always has. I had tea and christmas cake many times over in warm kitchens. I had lunches in the members rooms of museums. I was overwhelmed by the hospitality of friends who had me to stay and stay and stay. I saw anew Lucian Freud’s work spread over many rooms at the National Gallery. I heard the choristers of Westminster sing high and clear at Evensong at the Abby. I learned the basics of roulette as my dear friends guided some of their dear friends into the New Year with gambling in the Suffolk countryside. I finally visited the house with the garden and the wall and the views beyond, with the walks and the chats and the pink sofas and the welcome; and yes, it was worth the wait. I got wet, I got muddy, I got jolly cold. Not complaining. Honestly. I blow on my freezing fingers with pride. So very good to be back.