Not that you noticed I was away, I'm sure. I've just spent seven glorious days on the idyllic island of Lamu, in the Indian Ocean just off Kenya. Well, I spent most of those lazing around the pool in our ridiculously rock & roll house. But you get the drift. Then home for my first Bonfire Night in, I reckon, eight years. It's the time of the year I'm most homesick, other than Notting Hill Carnival (the last weekend in August), and while thrusting sparklers into the air, tracing messages (THFC and, nauseatingly enough, Grace Loves Mark), I was reminded of those evenings growing up, with mittens and mum making potatoes in the bonfire and it was magic.
But the start of the evening was inauspicious - lots and lots of rain, and we'd not protected the fire that my bro had beautifully built. Then, suddenly, the rain stopped, and the night took on that hazy misty look that clouds and fireworks everywhere bring about; it was wonderful. My bro's fire blazed away, and I appear to have inherited my mother's somewhat... cavalier approach to health & safety & fireworks. Which is probably not good.
But now I'm knackered, and have to somehow recover from my holiday and throw myself back into work. But only two weeks until Thanksgiving. I can manage that.
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