Some time ago, a Catholic church was allowed to be erected in my neighbourhood. We’ll pass over the fact that I can NOT believe that churches are allowed even on the FRINGES of suburban neighbourhoods –noy because I’m a non church-going member of the precarious Christian faith. Not even because I’m a snob. It’s just that, like most people, I enjoy my Sunday-morning lounging in bed session –except that this is dutifully made IMPOSSIBLE by magnified horrendous singing from the Presbytarian church that is MANY roads away, and yet manifests as if WITHIN my bedroom EVERY Sunday, ON the Sunday. Morning. For which I’ve grown to HATE Presbytarians. I’ve nothing else against them. In fact, Mum being Presbytarian (also rarely church-attending –and then not THAT one,) I almost became one.
What makes me happy on Sundays now is the fact that, in less than HALF the time it’s taken to erect this Catholic monstrosity… a fully-fledged PUB has come up directly opposite, which I visited for the first time today.
It is obviously an ex-Somebody’s Home, complete with pool AND a fountain. The grounds are fabulous, and as I sipped my Tusker, reading over and over again Braveheart’s latest email to me (plus, having moved on from Lord Chips Channon’s memoirs, I’m deep into Mr Noel Barber’s –both LOVELY, like the Perfect Hot Chocolate when comfort is needed…) I felt… massaged! The giant trees whispered of oncoming rain, the waiter was a perfectly Frenchified self-effacing personality, and glancing up, for I was afraid to have passed one of those moments that actually turn out to be several hours –I was delighted to see that, in the twilight, the Moon was already stripping for us (but she teasingly retained half her clothing) sticking out her tongue at the Sun, who wasn’t nearly done with his magnificent ‘Setting’ ceremony. I couldn’t help but smile, despite a HORRENDOUS two weeks, and was, for a precious moment, Perfectly Happy. God bless God. He knows Perfection, even if we’re ever to slow to recognise, let alone appreciate it.
Nairobi right now is HOT. And sure, it’s ‘clean’ heat (nothing like the humidity of West Africa –or even Mombasa’s which depresses her own buildings and causes them, in protest, to shed paint as a snake does skin…) but it’s also unbearable. I can barely contain myself from stripping, and my underclothes are now mostly inexistant (NO panties) or irritably shed on the dot of 5 (I expertly feed my bra into my handbag, and head home feeling Free At Last!)
It WOULD be bearable if I were able to spend these months by the sea, at the Coast, dipping every so often, and straggling up to barfuls of refreshing fruit cocktails, fresh fruit, and later, a Proper cocktail. Boat rides, intensive Vitamin D absorbtion sessions… But no. I’m such a good worker, I can bearly get any leave until the 21st weekend (DECEMBER) and though I’m actually NOW burned out… the Kenyan Coast in December is anathomy. Hotels are packed –by the very same people you are desperately seeking to avoid. All of Nairobi seems tp migrate there –and that won’t do for me, so Mc Mushy and I? We’re heading for Ethiopia. I.CAN’T.WAIT.
For those who don’t know Ethiopia –I can’t tell you ENOUGH how gorgeous it is. The last time I was there was as a child, but I have never forgottten it. The smells, the history, the coffee, the unexpected BEAUTY. And now I find out it’s NOT too expensive to go! Cheaper, even, than a holiday within Kenya (at least in December)!!! When Mc Mushy proposed it, I said ‘Yes, yes, YES!’ and there was no two ways about it. If we can’t fall in love over Italian food and local honey-wine in an historical hotel… Clearly.
It’s ALL I’m looking forwards to! Except for a dinner, on the 30th (this month) that I’ve been invited to, which will be hosted by HRG and Air France. I’m thinking, it might be just the try out I need, before encountering Mc Mushy in person. Lots of chances to flirt with (hopefully HOT) men. Yes? I plan to be Hot mysself. And irresitible.