I may be watery-eyed, stuffy-nosed, and shaking my sweaty fist at the sweltering heavens above for giving this country of mine such a blasted climate, but I’m home.
Home is partly the same (brother still spends all his free time playing Civ II and composing chess problems, sister is still a workaholic) and partly not (brother’s quit teaching and become a cryptographer, mother’s taken up line-dancing and father’s new hobby is charging wild-eyed around the house brandishing a fly-swatter in search of a swarm of marauding and, he claims, hostile, ants that have overrun us. I should say that no one else has seen that many ants, let alone lost a limb to them, but that’s my father for you.)
I went to a shopping mall in my neighbourhood and a new women’s fashion store’s opened there. It’s called Wanko. I kid you not. I’m tempted to buy something from there just so I can bring the bag back to London and carry strangely and provocatively shaped things around in it.