Home is wonderful, but there's no St James' Park at home

For such a short holiday, the readjustment back into The Real World is taking its toll.  For one, I think I may have caught sleeping sickness.  For two, why didn't someone tell me how boring work is???  For three... I can't remember what three is.  I'm sleepy.  Is it time for bed?

So, to break the hum of the drum, I thought I would tell you a London story. 

My mother spent a little time in London with my older brothers (this is pre-me) in the year before a move elsewhere, during which my father undertook language training.  Two troublesome kids in a twin stroller meant no tube or buses for Mum, so she walked.  Everywhere.  One of her favourite places to go was St James' park where she could stroll, let the kids run and delight them by feeding the ducks. 

Channelling memories to which I was not a party, we set off through the park.  We didn't advance that far before a very kindly chap by the name of Sammy the Squirrel stopped for a chat.  He had much to say, and held us up for a good length of time.  Kind, but not generous, he was most unwilling to share his petit four and eventually sauntered on his way, running across our tippy toes.  No doubt he had other engagements to keep and other people to delight. 

The park was beautiful and everything I somehow knew it would be.  Standing by the ducks, I got misty eyed for a time that I didn't know and brothers whom I miss.  Respecting the time difference, I later shared the experience with my wonderful Mum.  I may be wrong, but I think I heard some misty eyes down that ever so long phone line too. 

Riss the...wistful.