A Sort of Homecoming

Three years ago the freedom of infertility set me on a mid-life meander to Melbourne. Last month, I went home… So, what have my cohorts and countrymen been up to without me? Well, apart from break-ups, breeding and Brexit. Not much.

We did the rounds. From family roasts to beers with the lads. We were like social butterflies with booze for pollen. ‘Cos you can’t have a UK catch up without getting half cut (and these days, my health conscious missus has put me at a disadvantage). It’s true what they say though. There is no place like home. But it’s not the place you miss, it’s the people.

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There was a sober side to our visit. A sick sister and the big C put me in a reflective mood. The despondency of déjà vu decreased, with the hope that modern medicine makes for a more optimistic outcome than for the old man. And that C, which currently stands for “chemo”, will stand for “cured” sometime soon.

The day we left may become known as independence day. Those jingoistic boomers with their nostalgia tinted newspapers out-numbered the euro friendly yoof. And the EU were told to do one! Politically, the captain was out to lunch and the Brexiteers took over the ship.

People slate the EU. Not me. If it weren’t for “free movement”, I’d never have met the wife (lady luck was smiling that day). The “leavers” tell me, they don’t wanna change the world. They’re just looking for a new England. I’m just a childless exile with no skin in the game. Let’s hope they know something I don’t.


Words from the wise:

No matter where I roam. I will return to my English rose.” – Paul Weller

…internationalism is the highest form of patriotism.” – Christopher Hitchens

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