Play me, I'm yours

On Wednesday I flew back to the UK for a holiday. The flight was very pleasant with good company and a comfortable plane. For five months I've been making new friends so it was a delight to see an long time companion Suzi at Gatwick. One night's sleep later and I had a hot shower, some nice wine and a day in the easy, chattery company of old friends who've been missed for too long. Plus the exotic flavour of strawberry in both ice cream and jam form.

A pleasant evening in London brought the first meeting with a family member as I went to meet Irene as she finished work. Slightly early I had the chance to mooch around an exhibition on Lambeth life, watch a bit of street dance, another exhibit about the Beano, wander through the artisan food stalls, get outraged at the planned closure of the south bank skate park which is an icon of participatory youth work (i.e. they just did it - look at longlivesouthbank.com) and browse a few books. I've missed this part of my culture, the art and vibrancy of London streets. Overlooking it all from Irene's restaurant with a tasty margarita was wonderful, as was being able to inflict my logorrhoea not only on Irene but also on Lizzie and Emma.

Saturday came and, after a few essential tasks and a bowl of katsu don (London's diverse cuisine is also highly appreciated), it was time to wend my way to find my mother. Paranoid about time, I had two hours to spare in St Pancras. And now London culture rescued me once again. There are a number of pianos across town where any one can sit and play. Avoiding the coffee shops and high-end-high-street pseudo-retro kitsch browsing opportunities I dropped my rucksack and perched by the piano. I heard tunes from musicals and movies, two men meeting and experimenting with a blues duet, jazz improvisations of Beatles classics and current chart hits. Then one man played my mum's tune, Moonlight Sonata.

Two hours passed and my rucksack and I rejoined, bought a coffee and joined the train. Gold and green rolling hills are streaming past the window in an English chequerboard. Grey clouds float over white and the late sun glows dimly through as patched horses eat a supper of grass. I appreciate my British identity, the general acceptance of difference (usually), the eccentricity, the landscape and climate that has inspired generations to work for or discover something and occasionally to sit inside when it rains. As usual I am also aware of how much I enjoy being the outsider, the unusual, the independent woman in a new situation. And how that influences the way I am enjoying living in The Gambia. But today my country played music for me, music I have missed despite the playlists carried with me; it gave me flavours of lands far and near and cheerful serving staff who's diversity echoes the food; it spattered me with rain but not too much; it of course asked me to run into a level of bureaucracy I've forgotten and forced me to remember how to win people round. And it has given me what I was craving most, the substantial company of old friends, real and serious conversations that only come with time, and new jokes made with my sisters. And, right now, I'm going to see my lovely mum.