Dogger, 30 over 50 strong veering easterly, moderate or good, occasionally poor.
What a fabulous noise, it reminds me of my youth, reminding me that somewhere a sailor needs that information and reminding me of the feeling that life is remarkably comfortable from the inside of an estate car driving through the rain. It’s one of the things about not living in the UK that I really miss, which led me to think about more things I miss about not being in England. Right now without having left Qatar since February we all miss being at home more keenly than ever, we all live in hope that the COVID fairies let us travel for Christmas…but in the meantime here’s a list of the stuff I really miss.
I miss Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding, around a table filled with noisy friends sloshing red wine down after seemingly endless Bloody Mary’s.
I miss driving home on a Sunday night, tired and looking forward to the week ahead with Radio 4 keeping the children asleep and me awake.
I miss walking the dogs with my mum.
I miss going all the way to Slone Square because Peter Jones has better stuff than all the John Lewis’ we pass on the way.
I miss Sunday Papers, endless supplements on topics I don’t care about hiding the motoring section deep in its midst.
I miss the BBC.
I do not miss ignorant pricks playing loud music on the bus.
I miss lying on the grass on a summer day watching the clouds float past.
I miss fish and chips
I miss stopping at a service station on a long drive and picking up a pack of Walkers Salt and Vinegar crisps, a carton of Ribena, and a pack of fruit pastilles.
I miss the cold tap actually being cold.
I don’t miss those grey cold windy days standing on a tube platform exposed to the elements with rain dripping down my back, but I do miss watching the rain roll over the hills towards you in some sort of Constablesque style…I miss it because it never happens like that, it’s only in expats heads that sh1t weather is fabulous.
I miss going to stay with my friends and family for the weekend.
I miss pints of London Pride and a pack of Pork scratchings on a Tuesday evening on the way home from work standing on a pavement with my friends nailing half a pack of fags.
I miss wondering who buys a bottle of miniature Barcardi from a newsagent.
I miss a carpeted stairway.
But most of all I miss my boys growing up with your children, with the sound of your laughter at our table and I miss you – all of you. You know who you are because you have read to the end. x