It’s the bank holiday weekend, and we arrive back from the airport in a cab to discover it’s the carnival; we can’t get anywhere near Cricket’s house as all the roads are blocked.
How could I have forgotten it’s Notting Hill Carnival? I ask myself, as we have to get out and wheel our suitcases through the crowds of revellers. I used to look forward to the carnival for weeks. It was the highlight of the year!
Because now you get claustrophobic in crowds and the music’s too loud, replies my forty-something self as we reach the sanctuary of Cricket’s house. And you’re dying for a cup of tea.
It’s been a long journey and, instructing Cricket to sit down, I put the kettle on. While I’m waiting for it to boil, I open the sash windows to let in some fresh air. The house is on the procession route and from here I get a great view of the floats going by in the street below, with their vibrant costumes and echo of steel drums. It’s family day, and absently I let my gaze slide over the excited faces of the children and their parents as my thoughts drift back to Spain.
So much happened in that week; it feels like we were away for much longer. I left a lot of stuff behind there, and things feel different now I’m back. I feel lighter, freer. Almost, dare I say it, a little excited about the future . . . My eyes land upon a small girl across the street. Sitting on her dad’s shoulders, she’s holding a balloon and waving at the crowds. I’m suddenly reminded of that feeling on my birthday, when I was walking Arthur past all the houses and looking through the windows. Me on the outside, looking in on everyone on the inside.
‘Here you go.’ I snap back to see Cricket passing me a glass with ice and lemon. ‘Bugger tea, I thought we’d have gin and tonics,’ she smiles, clinking her glass against mine. ‘Salud!’
‘Salud!’ I smile.
If only I’d realized then how great the view from the outside can be.