Across Continents

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Neither Jam nor Jerusalem

Hardly the most striking of epiphanies I’d admit, but I’d woken to the stark realisation that it was now a year since I’d finally ridden back to Somerset . Just a year. I lay there pondering this for a while, before the abrupt interruption of the bedside alarm. Not unexpected, for, even beneath my overgenerous duvet I could sense the warmth in the room, aware that the heating had already cut in as it was meant to do shortly before I rose. But it was a Sunday. I could afford a little lie-in.

I’d returned to the world of work about six months earlier. Found myself a suitably challenging second career, rather than simply a job, immersing myself in all that it offered. After all, why settle for being good, surely better to be the best. A sound aspiration at least. Especially when there’s skills from the road, and a few from a previous life, that could be put to good use. And there’d still been time to bid my tenants farewell and return to my cottage. And to audition for the WI. Not, I hasten to add, for a calendar, but as a speaker.

I’ve already given a few talks to local groups, with a couple more planned for later in the year. Heartily recommended to anyone with a tale to tell. Confirmatory note through the letterbox. Warmly welcomed on arrival. Tea and cake in abundance. Attentive audience. No jam as such, save for a generous dollop on the odd fruit scone, nor rapturous recitals of Jerusalem. No bad thing really if you’ve ever heard my efforts at singing, for I’d no doubt feel obliged to join in. Like my linguistic ability, very much enthusiasm over ability. Alarm once more. Time, I suppose, to get up. Much to do.

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