Back home

It's always unsettling going away from Kenya for a holiday, especially when we go to the UK/Europe. (A small note - we told our fellow chalet guests that our mainland 'European' friends in Africa have for years called us Brits 'Island Monkeys' because the Brits always refer to themselves as not actually in Europe. The Brits in the chalet/hotel thought this was quite funny....quite.)

When I get home I notice afresh all the cracks in the house and the mouldy bits, the cold, bare floor, the very dark, small kitchen, the wonky pictures on the wall. To be honest, if I look at anything closely, it all looks rather tatty. Instead of leaping into action and frenetically making plans to improve things, I wait for the moment to pass.

I generally find that after around 24 hours my eyes grow accustomed to the tatty house (it has not been re-painted inside for over seven years now - there are lots of childrens finger prints!) and I get used to it. A film possibly grows over my eyes and after one day it matters a lot less that the house is not decorated with Fired Earth tiles, Farrow & Ball paint (or is that out of fashion now?), that there's no Smallbone bespoke fitted kitchen with glazed, interior lit cupboards in the kitchen (Ok, this does exist in my dreams!) and basically we have no mod cons. My husband dreams of a flat screen tv or at least something bigger than our one little box. We actually should get around to improving the house and probably will do... some day.....budget permitting. But in my view what things look like inside your home matters less in Africa. Maybe it's because many of our friends are renting. Maybe you just don't put down quite such firm roots here.

Anyway, this time the tattyness was harder to ignor because the long rains have set in with an absolute vengence. Last night rain (and indeed hail!) was pounding our roof so hard that it was, as usual, finding various disturbing ways of coming in.
'Mummy! It's raining in my bedroom! We have to move!' my four year old announced as water plopped down onto her foam covered chair.

Minutes later, as I tapped on my computer upstairs some damp cement fell, thump, through the sodden ceiling boards next to my desk.
'I think we need a new roof,' I called out to my husband. 'or alternatively we could sell the house?'
Then the power went out.

Today I noticed driving along that outside everything is vivid green, grassy and utterly overgrown. Eucalyptus trees are falling here and there. Two trees fell last night in our garden (but not the big one thank goodness). The traffic is horrendous along Ngong road, bumper to bumper for no obvious reason at all. It must be simply the puddles and potholes slowing drivers down.

We had such a fun holiday. As forecasted, deep snow settled in the resort on our last day so we skied and built a very odd looking snowman (more like The Night Garden - 'makapaka') and we messed around with the children in the snow until they got too cold - having kidnapped them from making juggling balls in centrally heated kids club with dry rice and balloons. Instead we warmed up with hot chocolate and gluwein.

To my horror, one evening my husband announced to our fellow chalet guests that I write a blog. One or two guests immediately picked up their i-phones and looked it up. Over dinner I proceeded to get ribbed mercilessly for having written that our holiday was 'like a second honeymoon' and sadly i wasn't quite quick enough to say; 'Well I know ours is! Isn't yours?!'

Now I must keep my fellow skiers' character assinations to myself in case of being exposed - though seriously, everyone was very nice and we had lots of laughs together over the dinner table and a high point was the weekly punter's quizz. The only down point that all the people working in the chalet were in their early twenties and let slip a couple of times as we dutifully trotted off to bed exhausted at 10pm, that they were off out to a club or a live music gig in town. Personally speaking, being reminded that you are no longer in your twenties did affect morale a touch.

After the week skiing we got a chance to visit my cousin in Geneva for a night which was lovely and she spoiled us rotten. She apologised for the cold drizzle as we visited the Cathedral and the next day a French food market. Meanwhile I was thinking enviously about the fact that more snow was bound to be falling up on the mountain tops and at the same time seriously questioning whether I would ever be able to 'do' a British or indeed European (see!) winter again.

We travelled back to Kenya with Swiss Easter eggs & bunnies, a huge slab of cheese, a small saucisson, one bottle of Beaujolais. I haven't finished unpacking yet, but have at least managed to pull these things out! I wonder if there was anything else I've forgotten? The laundry pile is frightening.

On the first night that we got back from our trip, our middle daughter cried in bed.
'What's up? I asked.
'I miss Family Ski Company!' she sobbed. 'I want to go back.'
Hmm, I thought.
'Maybe we'll go back next year.' I said crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Maybe....'

Skiing!

Though it might be sad to blog whilst on holiday, I had to write a quick line.

We are all in heaven!

The girls didn't realise that snow would be wet!! The first day they rolled around in it (as best they could as it was rather hard!) then got soaking. The water comes out of the tap so icy that my youngest exclaimed, it's like snow!! There was some complaint about piling on layers and bumpy socks, but we've all got used to that now.

We're staying in an English chalet hotel that takes childcare extremely seriously with x12, 20 something staff who are great fun.

In the morning, all the parents (many of them are doctors oddly?) are wracked with guilt over handing over their kids. The kids pile into an electric car and are ferried off to ski school, as happy as anything, and all of us parents stand around the vehicle waving them off, in mourning. The skis are kept near the nursery slopes in a heated store room, so no heaving skis up through the village.

In spite of the high emotion, we are basically having the most wonderful, second honeymoon type of time skiing all morning, choosing routes on the map and stopping off for hot coffee or a plate of chips and yes, I have to admit it, occasionally spying on our kids in ski school! We tried to drag our kids out of kids club on the first day and they waved us away crossly saying, we are going on a snowy treasure hunt with sweets! The next day it was a visit to the ice cave. Last night after take-away pizza, the kids watched a video in a giant heap because it was the chefs night out. We went for a fondue and came home groaningly full. Babysitting was laid on free.

We had a little sleet type snow the first day, then it has been sunny since and not too cold at all. We are skiing in t-shirts and sallopettes. More snow is forecast at the end of the week. We hope to get some big flakes to show our kids, it will round things off nicely!

Confession time

I have a huge confession to make. It's been in the pipeline for the past couple of months but I've been far too embarrassed to admit it. Not being smug or anything but we're going skiing! Screech! Going on a ski trip, especially from Africa, is the ultimate in decadence (oh, the cost!), however, after years of yearning to show our kids some snow for the first time, we're going.

I said to my Belgian friend this morning at the school gates,

'The problem is, we are so completely African now! Over the past 11 years we have only ever visited family in England or stayed here in Kenya. Goodness knows how we will manage in Switzerland?! It's going to be a massive culture shock.'

Between rounding up borrowed ski kit for 5 of us from well equipped friends and asking headmistresses if they'd mind awfully if our kids miss a couple of days of school at the end of term, I've been absolutely paranoid about ill health or accident preventing us from going. Last weekend, when dropping our middle daughter at a birthday party where there was a soapy water slide and 40 kids running amok on quarter of an acre, I became utterly convinced that she would fall and break her arm. A mother of a child in our youngest's class mentioned yesterday that her daughter had been struck down with a bad case of flu. I nearly strangled her. As a preventative measure, for the past two weeks the whole family has been over-dosed with vitamin C, cod liver oil and echinacea (sp?) and we are all buzzing with the chemicals.

My husband is in Europe already for work and said that in Zurich it was -8! Cue - last minute dash to Mitumba for me, in search of additional wool jumpers for the kids.

The problem is that I've lived here for too long. I simply can't imagine feeling cold. I can only picture us all happily skiing in t-shirts, jackets tied around waists under clear blue skies. My plan is that the four year old will take to it like a duck to water (won't whinge, won't get tired) and we'll swoosh down the slopes in a happy group of 5, not arguing. Never mind that my husband has already insisted on snowboarding, neither of us have been skiing for over 15 years (and even then only a couple of times) and I've got serious reservations about the 4 year old coping - and keep telling everyone she's nearly 5, so it will be fine - even though her birthday's not until July.

In an effort to get everyone in the family even more excited, I having been looking online at the resort's web cam - The last time we looked with the kids it was white-out. Oh, not quite what I had in mind. Meanwhile, the girls are busy speculating on how snow will taste - they decided they will only eat the white stuff, not the brown or yellow. Gross. I am excited about the ice cave and the bakery museum and buying Swiss chocolate Easter eggs.

Our journey to the resort promises to be interesting. We have to find our own way there after a night flight (3.5hrs), which will involve taking Swiss trains and buses, then after our week skiing, we cross Switzerland to find my cousin in Geneva, then will somehow trail back to Zurich to catch a dawn flight to Nairobi a day or two later.

I need to start packing. I'm used to going to England with empty cases in the summer. It's unbelievable how much gear we've borrowed. I'm weighing up whether to put the kids to bed then wake them up a couple of hours later tomorrow night because we are taking a midnight flight. I hope that years of anticipation does not spoil the trip. I'm acutely aware that so much could go wrong but keeping fingers crossed that it will be the one off holiday of a lifetime that we'll talk about for years to come (no pressure then!).

p.s. My husband will absolutely die when he hears that Bono is here in Nairobi. Bono and U2 are his all time heroes - though I always tease him that they are a bit before my time!! (not really true, but I can always pretend)

http://www.nation.co.ke/News/Rock%20star%20bono%20in%20Nairobi%20for%20media%20conference/-/1056/881470/-/dwfaaaz/-/index.html

Developed and Developing

Last week it was a case of; 'another week another corruption scandal' with this time (an outraged!) deputy VP Musalia Mudavadi in the line of fire over links to a crooked Government land purchase deal for a public cemetery. Apparently the Government (read: tax payer) paid many times over the asking price for the land and the 'extra cash' got farmed out to 17 various officials along the way. (real price of the land; Sh 24 million, price paid, Sh283 million) It was all extensively reported in the Nation and Standard newspaper - so no new news here. At least the Kenya Anti Corruption Commission seem to be keeping people on their toes at the moment!

William Ruto is all over today's papers, pictured riding alongside President Kibaki in an open top car at a rally over the weekend - i.e. to show all that it's two fingers to his former ODM political boss and ally Raila Odinga - now he's officially switched sides - favouring the one who does not want to suspend him from office while investigations go on over the maize scandal. In reaction, Raila said words to the effect of; 'how can somebody who was so recently your sworn enemy now suddenly be your friend?' But such is the world of politics.

In home news - our gardener's wife was hit by a matatu (public minibus) on friday as she walked home from dropping her son at school. When it swerved off the road to avoid an oncoming lorry she somehow got hooked onto the wing mirror and dragged along. Horrific. While she didn't break any bones, she has had to have her jaw wired together as all her teeth were knocked loose (she lost one). The matatu driver took her to hospital then tried to run away before paying medical costs, but fortunately the police caught up with him. So horrible. Poor woman, she was just walking along, minding her own business.

Over the weekend we were doing some rather intensive Geography revision with our eldest daughter (test today). Interestingly, she has been learning the physical geography of both Kenya and UK (provinces, mountain ranges, rivers) followed by a comparison of each country's level of development. The facts were fascinating but written so starkly, made me feel a bit sad. To crib Mr Nderitu:

Comparing Development:

Wealth - Average income per person. Kenya: $355, UK $24,323

Food - Daily calorie supply as a % of needs (this one really got me!).
Kenya 89%, UK 130%.
(I know that these facts are pretty obvious if you think about it but put like this it's still shocking.)

Education - % of children attending secondary school. Kenya 20%, UK 83%.

Health - Number of people per doctor. Kenya 10,130, UK, 300.

TVs - Number of sets per 1,000. Kenya 26, UK 521.

Cars - Number of cars per 1,000 people. Kenya 15, UK 476.

Oi! Someone stole my content!

It's a funny thing to stumble across not just one isolated post but your blog, post by post, published (with photos) on a commercial site - obviously via a live feed. Felt odd when this happened to me yesterday anyway. (on closer inspection, it's just the first 8-10 lines of each post... but still!)

I googled 'stealing blog content' and found that this is quite common phenomenon. Odd. It must be particularly galling for the many bloggers (like me I admit) who are also trying to scratch a living from freelance writing.

I know that online mags are under pressure to find 'sticky' (I'm learning!) content for their sites - but aren't we, as authors, supposed to give them permission or something? Copyright? It seems unfair that they are running (and earning from) their own ads alongside my content.

It's a tough old world.

Rains in Kenya

Last night I lay awake listening to the pouring rain. There were flashes of lightening, rolling thunder.

I always fear that the big tree in our garden will come crashing down onto our house during these storms and tell myself that I will definitely get around to doing something about it in the morning - ie get a tree specialist in to cut it - but never do. At around 4am I went around the house closing the kids' bedroom windows. The rain had already come in. The foot of our eldest's bed was soaked.

It's funny but the water leaks through the roof in different places each time, depending on the direction in which the storm is blowing. One day it was the little attic/office (last week drying out the scruffy carpet was a challenge and the room stank of damp for days), another time it was my daughter's bedroom. Last night rain dripped in and down onto the base drum that forms part of my daughter's drum kit. It made quite an impressive sound.

As usual, I lay awake at night thinking of how people in Nairobi are managing with their temporary houses. Whether Kawangware or Kibera is getting washed away.

In fact heavy rains have caused havoc in Kenya over the past week. Flood warnings have been issued in various areas across the country from coast province to Turkana. Numbers of people feared dead as a result of flooding and landslides are climbing. In Uganda, a landslide wiped out two villages.

Last week Samburu park was flooded when the Ewaso Nyiro River burst its banks. Bridges were washed away. In the early hours of the morning, tourists apparently fled their tents/bandas and sought refuge up trees and on lodge roofs as water levels rose suddenly and flooded through the camps. Many lost their belongings, some were injured. The Royal Airforce, Kenyan and UK army airlifted people to safety. I understand that Lewa conservancy staff were also helping with rescue efforts. Intrepids, Larsens and Serena lodges in Samburu have now all temporarily closed down.

It never rains but it pours.

www.nation.co.ke/News/Kenya%20floods%20bring%20death%20and%20havoc/-/1056/873842/-/ilykm7/-/index.html

Luis Moreno Ocampo - Kenya's big hope.

In the soap drama that is Kenyan politics - don't you think it's funny that Luis Moreno Ocampo - the Argentinian ICC lawyer who is driving the investigation into post election violence here in Kenya - is rather a dish?

The local newspapers love to put his photo on the front page every day and well they might. He's the great hope of Kenyans, the only person who can ensure their ever seeing justice done (some displaced Kenyans are still in IDP camps two years on!). While many may hope his image simply strikes fear into the hearts of guilty post election violence perpetrators and incitors, I'm just rather impressed that he is so easy on the eye.

When he visited Kenya he didn't disappoint, looking very cool, stroking a cheetah at the animal orphanage in a jacket and jeans.

Talking of celebrities. Serena Williams was in town last week to revisit her various charitable projects. In an article entitled 'Who upset Tennis Queen?' Reporters say that she arrived in town in a 'foul mood' and would not speak to anyone. The resulting rather long, padded out article in the Standard was a delight to read.

'Under the cover of dark glasses, she appeared unconcerned about the presence of the scribes who defied chilly weather to cover her arrival'

(That one tickled me paticularly. After all, Nairobi's not so chilly really!)

and

'Photojournalists were forced to peep through the door to snap up pictures from a distance, thanks to digital technology!'

'A tired looking Serena sat quietly in a couch for over 20 minutes before moving befittingly to the Serena Hotel in the CBD where she will be staying.'

The trials and tribulations of dressing up

My eldest daughter has been in an utter tizz about a dressing-up day at school this Friday. It's World Book Day and they all get to dress as their favourite character in a book. They must carry with them the book itself and a poem in their pocket which they may be asked to read out during the day. What fun! I hear you say. Not so much....

When discussing possible costume ideas (trying to steer my daughter toward clothes she already has IE. 'why not go as My Story 'My Tudor Queen' in that Tudor costume I slaved over for you last year?!) the conversation went like this;

She said, 'I don't want to do that. The dress is not the same as the one in the picture.'

I said, 'Never mind, it'll do.'

She said, 'But Mummy! You get a PRIZE if you look most like your character in the book and I would really like to win it!'

I said, 'Maybe you should be more worried about your Kiswahili and maths mid year tests this week?' but this evidently went in one ear and out of the other.

She wanted to be the usual choice 'girl of roughly the same age with yellow hair' because she is a girl with yellow hair and this seems like a good idea. The first choice was 'My Sister Jodie' by Jacqueline Wilson. I said that this was not very inventive for a start - and that just going as a girl with yellow hair in school uniform like 'My Sister Jodie' might not bag her the prize. Then we had a row.

We looked at the possibility of Alice in Wonderland (a bit more high-brow perhaps), but the blue skirt I picked was apparently not right and she was not willing to carry Bagpuss as the Cheshire Cat under her arm, as he is the wrong colour. (I thought that was a brilliant idea of mine!)

She eventually settled on 'Lucy Willow' who on the book cover wears red tights, a pink dress with red spots, a beret and carries a watering can.
'I can keep the poem in the watering can!' she said delighted. Great, we had decided on something.

We searched in her cupboard but couldn't find the perfect dress. I finally convinced her to wear one that she already has. First she said,
'It won't do as it has a giant strawberry on the front and it doesn't have spots!'
I said,
'It's the same shape, looks similar, so I'm sure it will be fine.'

The compromise that we found is that she will wear the dress I chose, but inside out. For the last two evenings she has been in the process of sticking red sticker dots all over the lining to look like spots. Phew.

She also wants a beret. I had a sort of knitted beret hat that I thought would do, but she didn't approve so wanted to ask a friend who has a brother doing CCF if she could borrow this beret.

I said, 'you borrowed that hat last time and ended up not wearing it! I am not going to phone the mother and ask for it again. And anyway, I've got you a perfectly good beret.'

She said, 'PURLEEEEASE'

You can imagine!! The last two years we did Anne from the Famous Five, which was much easier. This year the whole nightmare began with,
'Mummy, I just simply can't go as Anne again.... OK!?'

In the meantime, my middle daughter is absolutely content to go as one of the Secret Seven in her jeans and a t-shirt, and has quietly made herself an 'SS' badge - which is apparently what they all wore to denote members (not very politically correct Enid Blyton? - I'm surprised at you?!).
I said, 'Which one will you go as? Janet?'
She said, 'Isn't Janet a boy?'
'I Don't think so?!' I said.
'Well she looks like a boy on the cover' my daughter said, 'but I'll go as Janet if you think that's a good idea.'
Deal done.

Out of Africa
As I rant about the eldest dressing up angst, to be fair, I am vaguely aware that this tendency to get over wrought over costumes may be hereditary.

This weekend we are off to an Out of Africa 40Th. Can't wait. My husband has been v. excited, asking me if it might, or might not be acceptable to arrive with a shot gun over his shoulder. Meanwhile I am obsessing over the beaded 1930s-esque Monsoon dress that I've had in my cupboard since my twenties and can barely squeeze into - or the belted cream linen skirt, white shirt, knee boots combo.

Super Heroes
The problem with dressing up is that not everyone tows the line. No doubt we will arrive on Saturday night to find that everyone else simply hasn't bothered and has decided to look their ravishing best in 'normal' party clothes.

A case in point; my middle daughter went to a 'super heroes' party last Saturday and we arrived a little late to find everyone in home clothes. Luckily we had a spare set for her to change into in the car so that she didn't have to walk in as a lone space ranger after all. Her street cred is in tact.

Bling Bling
A year or so ago we went to a 'Bling' party. My husband made a rather dashing Ali G, with bright yellow three quarter trousers, trainers, an orange t-shirt, tights on head - rapper style and an eyeliner goatee beard. I accompanied him with a Crodon facelift type hair extension high pony tail, fishnet tights and mini skirt - only to find that the hostess was wearing a rather lovely full length chiffon number that she had recently had run-up and the host was in his favourite paisley shirt and jeans. Another girl had sewed a few diamante bits onto a white sundress - which was her reference to bling...Oh dear. Not sure how we endured that one.

Traffic Lights
It gets worse. Another friend had a 'traffic lights' drinks party. I was grateful for the opportunity to wear my bright green/mistake purchase frilly t-shirt that should never see the light of day - only to find that green means 'you're up for it', orange means 'you're not sure' and red means 'hands off'. Fortunately I'd paired the t-shirt with a red skirt, but I did feel a bit of a berk.

Turn Around
One of the best all round dressing up efforts made was a friend's 30Th 'Turn Around' (or was that Turn About?) party, where you have to dress as your partner. This was easy for me, I wore my husband's workshop/mechanic overalls and had a grand time. All the men dressed as women. They arrived so nervous that they drank far too many cocktails then ended up swapping clothes and wigs with each other all night. Our friend Pete's nylon dress caught fire when he was dancing on the tables and it poured with rain, but it didn't matter. There were some very sore heads the next day.

Mad Hair
In spite of feeling nervous about going to a Mad Hair housewarming party where we didn't know anybody, I did my hair in lots of different pony tails, stuck straight sticks through each one, then wrapped ribbon & elastic bands round. After an hour or so my sticks were drooping and digging in to my scalp uncomfortably. My husband wore some tight trousers, a wide open necked shirt, medallions and a big curly wig. Unfortunately on this occasion everybody had made too much of an effort and the precious few we might have known in a crowd of 200 were entirely unrecognisable, so it was a bit of an odd evening.

Countries
This time everybody had to dress up in an outfit that embodied the country they were given at random. I was a punk from London. My husband had Germany, so went as the Red Baron and got a leather flying jacket from mitumba that has hung bulkily in our cupboard ever since. The nuts guy who dressed up in a Nazi uniform ended up getting in a fight.

Kenya Cowboy
My favourite had to be our own KC party where interpretations on the theme varied widely. Some panicked about the dress code beforehand, to which I said, 'don't worry, you are a KC, just come as yourself!!' (Tee He!)

My husband wore too short beige shorts, knee socks and Bata boots, a checked short sleeved shirt and leather hat. I wore a khanga fabric skirt, Kenya made sheepskin Ugg boot/slippers, no make-up, unbrushed hair, a beaded belt but failed to find a fur or sheepskin gilet, damn. Other men wore kikoys and Kenya Flags or full safari outfits while the the best dressed girl wore a 1980s long flowing skirt with a low slung wide belt over a billowing white shirt and blow-dried hair- Kuki Gallman style. Perfect.

Our 1930s Nairobi house

It's one of those things that is totally fascinating for me, but probably pretty uninteresting to anyone else. A bit like waxing lyrical on the developmental stages your child has reached. Anyway - I will try not to bore you to much -BUT last week I had a very exciting visitor.

It all started when a tour representative visited our house in a red saloon car totally out of the blue. He was brandishing an email from a client with an old photograph of our house pictured on it. He said that he had 2 lady clients visiting from Canada (mother and daughter) who would very much like to see our house. They were visiting the Mara, Mombasa etc. as well but had asked their tour operator if he wouldn't mind awfully locating the old house of their mother/grandmother and the grave of the grandparents in Langata Cemetery (a needle in a haystack I dare say - but he did find it!).

I was delighted for a couple of reasons. 1) We didn't know when the house was built and I knew that the previous owners (turns out that there have only been 3 including us) made quite a few changes to the house. 2) Now that we are toying with the idea of making our own changes, I have been wondering for some time about the original layout.

The safari clients duly came the following Friday and I walked around the house with the mother who is in her seventies and whose, I discovered, parents had actually built the house - we worked out it was finished in 1937. I know that this is not old by UK standards - but thrilling for me. I always said that living in Kenya was not unlike 1930s UK living, except for computers and tvs we do, in many respects, live in a time warp here.

The odd bits that had changed around the house fazed her on occasion, but other areas brought memories flooding back. The arched veranda has now been glazed in and forms part of the central house. In her day they used to sit there and birds would fly in over their heads, nesting in the eves. They had curry lunches there too. She asked me if we still had all the lovely old fruit trees that her mother planted and I had to sadly admit that I'd never known any. She also asked about the lovely formal rose garden but I suspect that the guest wing was plonked on top of this. She told me that the drive was in a different place then - which made better sense to me than where it is now - and the kitchen used to be bigger - with a central island and a walk in larder/pantry, which sounded very contemporary. The one we have now is dark and downright poky (I eventually worked out that some of the kitchen space was sacrificed to make room for a downstairs loo.)

The tour operator brought lunch with him; samosas, cheese and biscuits and wine - we had a jolly time chatting more over lunch but had to rush as we had spent too long looking around the house and garden and the guests had a plane to catch to the coast. The older lady said that four years after her father completed the house, he was killed in the 2ND world war in East Africa while accompanying the Kings African Rifles (he was strictly speaking a mechanic, not a soldier).

All her stories were completely fascinating. She told me how her mother was in the East African Women's league. How the area around our house was all farm land then. She said that the cupboard doors in our rooms are all mahogany (owch, I painted them!! thought they were too dark), how her mother slept in our room and she slept in our middle daughter's room - and when she got married in St Francis church and had the reception on the lawn, she ran upstairs to the bedroom and threw the bouquet out of her bedroom window. There were no bars on the windows then and the little office where I type this apparently used to be called the 'attic room' - they fitted a little single bed in here - though with all my rubbish it's hard to swing a cat.

After marrying she lived with her husband in a house in the next door plot for some time before emigrating to Canada. Sadly the house next door was pulled down around 6 months ago to make room for a new town house development (noisy building work has been going on for ages). She said that she didn't mind this too much, as all her memories were bound up around our house - the place where she grew up, so seeing this was more important for her.

I feel very lucky to have had such an interesting visitor, and for living here in such a lovely, happy house.

'My father used all the best materials, the best architect. This house will go on forever' she said, the trace of a tear in her eye.

I certainly hope so.