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British Isles Friday: Parakeets in the Park

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Parakeets in the ParkOn a beautiful day in May, 2017 my husband and I walked through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. It’s really not that easy to tell where one ends and the other begins. We were looking for the Peter Pan statue (next week’s post) when we came across a small clearing cluttered with people holding their arms in the air, offering perches for surprisingly green birds fluttering in the air. Parakeets, and so prevalent, and with so many people standing about in their midst I stupidly assumed this must be some sort of birder club gathering. Ding dong me! I didn’t know the birds were wild and the people were just regular folks like us trying to get a better look. 


Doing a little post-trip homework I discovered the parakeets are so abundant in the park—and the inner mile they’re actually considered a bit of a nuisance by some people! I wish I’d known before the trip that all I had to do was bring a slice of apple and I could get the birds to land on me too!

I thought this wom…

#ThrowbackThursday: Turkish Delight

It’s #ThrowbackThursday and I don’t think I could throw it back any further than this, my earliest memory. 

Turkish Delight 

There's darkness everywhere, shapeless black all around except for a blur of wavering yellow light in the distance. Something has woken me up. Muffled voices in the darkness; a man's—deep, hushed, whispering. Then another—higher pitched, a lady's? My mother's? I hear my name, "Simone" but I can't make out the rest; just sharp, staccato sounds. A shadow crosses the yellow light, so huge it blocks the brightness, and there's nothing but blackness again. The dark shadow, darker than the darkness, is moving fast, coming closer, heading towards me and I'm too terrified to move or breathe or close my eyes. If I stay perfectly still maybe it won't get me. I watch as the black blur moves towards me, growing larger as it comes closer and closer and just as it reaches under the blanket to scoop me up with its big hands, I want to cry because I can tell from the smell that it's my father. "It's Daddy" he says, pulling a blanket around me, and I relax into his arms. I still can't make him out properly but I know it's him, the way his neck feels, warm and bristly, the way his skin smells of cigarettes and Brylcreem.  He moves with me toward the yellow light, and I see now that it's the ceiling lamp in the hallway. There are tiny bugs frozen behind the frosted glass just like always.
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