Surfacing

At 5 am I coming up slowly from the depths of sleep, think I'm at home, realise I'm not but can't remember where I am. And then PING I'm wide awake. Sleep has made the events of the past few days seem unreal. Then I remember that something else is unreal. Life as we know it Jim, has changed.

A few days before I left, my daughter's long-running relationship had ended. It ended suddenly and without discussion, leaving her standing on the edge of a cliff. It's an odd thing, now someone that I thought of as part of the family, always around, isn't. How do I relate to him now?

Yesterday when I phoned Austen, he said,
'I need to tell you about something really bad that has happened, not health, not the kids.' His tone reassured me that it didn't concern his own little family. Then he told me some family news that left me cold with shock, as though the page of our family book had been ripped. That which was unchanging has changed. I will have to leave it there at the moment, but it affects my plans.

So I am sitting in the morning darkness, drinking coffee. I realise the milk is all gone, apparently the milkman doesn't come on a Tuesday. Milkmen are a part of British culture that is fast disappearing, one we've always tried to support, old people need to have their milk delivered and a good indicator of something being wrong is when milk is left out on the doorstep. Maybe the milkman tells someone, maybe a neighbour with a key will go in. But it cannot last, they can't compete with the supermarkets. In Britain, the big supermarkets Tesco and Sainsburys, let you order from their websites and will deliver to your door, well actually your hallway. They know what you like too. They will tell you what you bought last time, what you bought in the store. Big sister is everywhere and she's making your life easier.

I walk along to the supermarket's petrol station which has a small convenience store. It's fun in the dark, watching the houses and the country wake up. But even though I think I'm alert, I'm now standing at the counter my hair like a scarecrow, wearing one of Alex's sweatshirts that tells the world loudly that I'm from Iowa and spilling Canadian and English coins everywhere. The boy asks me if I'm OK, it's weird to hear that Ali-G accent for real again.

When I get back I sit and watch the sky lighten and then, yes, yes it really is! Postie, bike leant against a tree, I watch him deliver post to the close, then hear the plop as letters fall onto the floor in the hall.

It's strange to be eight hours ahead again, I think I prefer being behind the times. I read the Guardian online and discover that I now have a dilemma. My favourite for the French presidency, Nicolas Sarcozy has a challenger, a woman Ségolène Royal, I will have to abandon Sarcozy, I know he will be devasted.

Off to the train station now, going to Pompey to see my grandkids. I will stop at Boots and WHSmith on the way now that I have sorted my Candian money, put it away for now, I found quarters in the strangest quarters.
I love the train. It is so soothing. The ads for British Rail used to say 'Let the train take the strain' and most of the time they're right.