Back Home In Crouch End

When I got back to England it was hot, and where I live everyone was outside, sitting on chairs outside the grocers, the little pub and the hairdresser.  It was a lot like Israel except that people were talking English with the odd smattering of Greek or Turkish.

I went to a gig of a friend of mine.  Lots of jews, playing their hearts out in a local bar.  It was lovely, but I was missing the loud chatter, the assertive way people asked for drinks, and the pleasure of speaking in another language (and of course, the bloody good coffee you could get in Israel).

I think I've settled back in now, but it's taken a while.  I've returned to my truly English persona, so much so that when I stood next to a woman with the biggest boobs I've ever seen in a packed tube train, I only smiled to myself and made no attempt to talk to her to quell the uncomfortableness of the situation.  It did occur to me to take a picture (my boob to her boob as it were...) but couldn't do it without her noticing.

the next day I took my niece and nephew out to crouch end.  It's a part of London where you get loads of mothers with state of the art prams, charity shops where designer clothes don't go above size 10 and full of coffee bars and restuarants.  It looked very quaint and so typically English in the afternoon light.  It's lovely but misses a little bit of grunginess that can be charming.

We walked on to Parkland Walk,  a wooded trail that used to be a railway line, now filled with families wearing dungarees and fathers who had long grey hair tied back.   About half way in, we saw a yellow ribbon tied to a tall tree.   Waiting for someone to come back perhaps. Or is it waiting for me to go back?