England no more: I know i’m home
I walked into the clinic, do the routine check, immediately. Waited enough to read 3 pages of a Brave New World then saw my doctor. 10 minutes later, having been given the all clear I had my bill processed. Then I’m walked out of the clinic to the lift by the rather pleasant nurse who wants to know how my past 6 months have been.
It took me a shade under 40 minutes. I think we call this, in Singapore, efficiency. With the NHS in england, they’d call me a liar. They call it a miracle. It just doesn’t happen.
Well, it left me tremendous amounts of time, to wait for my sister’s pottery lesson to end.
I found myself, meandering amongst the new shops of an old place, docking into an old haunt of mine.
Piped in jazz, the croon of sinatra, the sex (music not carnal)and the smell of brewing coffee. conforming to the contours of an easy chair, sipping from a cup of English breakfast tea (the irony doesn’t slip me) I pass on scones because the irony would have soured the dough. Instead, sausages, eggs-sunny side up, sauted mushrooms, toast, bacon and a grilled tomato. An american breakfast.
I look out of the giant glass panels, misted lightly, for the air conditioning is turned up to preserve customers. And, the majesty of cascading rainfall,(not an insipid drizzle that passes for rain) zooming cars, blue taxis and the occassional straggler poor on his luck, to be caught in the fury of the rain.
The certain pensiveness I am afforded and the luxury of creature comforts and familiarity tells me: I’m home.
