December 2013

[Sweder]

I stumbled into December like a tipsy Santa, wobbling my way across dew-laden downs under a weak winter sun. My feet kissed the mud, tired legs grateful for the yielding turf. I'd wrapped up as if on an Antarctic adventure, thermal vest, long socks, fingerless gloves. Wholly unnecesarily, as it turned out.

Yesterday lunchtime I completed a thirty-five hour journey from Melbourne via Dubai. The seven hour stop-over in the Duty Free section of DXB was a tour of gaudy excess. All shiny things were there, none you knew you needed, like the solid gold iPhone or the latest Mercedes sportser with its purple and white leather upholstry. Ghastly. Thank heavens for the Jack Daniels bar. I dined on Huevos Rancheros, washed down with several glasses of a most agreeable Pinot Noir from Oregon. The flight to London included a seven hour serenade from a miserable and, sadly, vociferous child. A chorus of restless grunts and angry tuts accompanied this cacophany of woe as the increasingly frantic parents struggled in vain to settle their offspring. It was hard not to imagine airlines installing little airlocks for such occasions.

Mrs S was there to greet me, dropping me off at the Dripping Pan just in time for Lewes Ladies v Gillingham. Unbeaten, top of the league and never behind in a league match this season, the Gills were expected to brush the Rookettes aside. Funny old game, football. Lewes fought like tigresses, closing down, forcing mistakes and taking a shock early lead. They ran out 3-1 winners. Fabulous stuff.

Today's plod covered barely two miles, an easy, welcome-home shuffle. The hounds seemed happy to see me, bounding around as if to show me the sights. Lewes lay in her sleepy vale, shrouded in white mist, waking slowly to another Monday morning.
It's good to be back.