At the weekend I tramped off to another festival. It was all the things that were in the England of my home-sick memories- rain, stoic picnics, checkered rugs, ale, polite queuing, friends, music, and marshmallow teacakes.



To my absolute delight, one of my favourite musicians was playing, a singer from Kent called Chris Wood , who's timing, humour and gentle mannerisms shine out from even the simplest of songs. To a tent of sodden onlookers, he unassumingly transfixed us all.

'Heaven and hell, and the life ever after
Are such a beguiling idea.
But our spell on this earth
Is much richer, Jehova,
Richer than we'll ever know.
When it comes time to leave it behind,
We'll just close our eyes and let go.
If we've done our best,
We'll be ready for a rest
We'll just close our eyes and let go.'

This from his atheist spiritual, Come Down Jehova. When my grandparents died, I was haunted by the fact that I had never explored where the dead went to. Consequently, and in search of some kind of solace, I went to a church, a mosque, and a marabout, but nothing much touched me. It's a nice idea, put to me in a damp marquee in Cambridge, that when we go, we just go, and that what we have to look forward to is a long, well-deserved rest.

*****



A prom, where these smooth discs on the ceiling made me feel incredibly soothed.

*****

London is taking some time to get used to. My stresses are not the same kind of stresses I dealt with in west Africa, yet I am still geared up physically and emotionally to do only one thing a day, for it will take all day, expect that things will somehow not work out but then suddenly work out in a way I could not have imagined, and to harden myself against all irritations.

What I am finding is that life- the logistic of life- is easy. Food is everywhere and everything is available, roads are good, public transport is quick and comfortable, traffic is quiet, people are restrained, money comes quickly and efficiently out of a hole in the wall, pavements are made for walking on, medical care is available to anyone, cycling is a joy as sand does not billow onto the roads. I wonder how long it will take for me to start complaining about the things I used to- buses cutting up cyclists, crowded tubes, rude people? I have already started thinking I should be thinner- that only took two weeks.

But the stresses in London are there, if different, and I miss the colourful disorder of Africa. I had a sudden overwhelming desire to hear the call of the mosque yesterday, that reassuring sound that sends men to the gutter to wash their feet and ears. I miss Omar and my afternoons at the cutting table, I miss the balcony doors overlooking the cathedral.

What I miss most, which is the very reason I am glad to be away from it for I know it will make me stronger in the end, is the complete chaos and struggle, the entertainment and the exoticism which distracts me from me. In London, I am faced with the bare bones of myself, and there's no getting away from it.