Immigranniversary

On our way back to the car after her piano lessons ...

'You don't like the cold do you daddy?'

'Not really'

30th November 

We walked for an hour to that dingy pub with sawdust on the floor - where above the dull thumping of repetitive percussion fellow immigrants discussed irritable bowel syndrome and axial loading in scaphoid fractures - apparently that's what the NHS wants us for 

On our way back through crunchy frost and that sly black ice - our frozen noses longing for runny days - we talked about the red sauce and the green chilli that comes with Kebabish chicken, three boys who didn't know how to be men, leave alone doctors.

That year, while November grudgingly handed over 9/11 to September, while our collective consciousness became hard wired against swarthy young men with stubbles, we walked on in the snow in ill equipped shoes and heavy jackets. Somehow the cold didn't feel that bad then.

'Daddy, open the car, I'm freezing'

'Of course sweet - sorry I was miles away'

'Silly daddy'