Just when we were setting off on our Italy trip, Nigel suggested I buy
something nice for lunch on the train.
I bought sushi.
But due to the palaver of packing, it never made it into the rucksack.
At times during the holiday, one of the offspring would ask me why I was
looking thoughtful.
I was contemplating the sushi waiting for us in the fridge. This dish whose essence was freshness would be
three weeks old when we got home.
But I would not tell them of this dark secret. It was not a pleasant image on which to dwell.
Instead: “Oh, I was just considering what memories I would take home from the
holiday.”
And now that I’m
on my way home, I know that the things I hope to treasure are the honeyed
scents of jasmine and lime flowers; the shrill, excited call of swifts
barrelling around an ancient square in Ravenna; the taste of truffles at il Pozzo; the sight of a thousand alpine
flowers on the Giro del Diabolo footpath at San
Pellegrino and the Giotto frescoes in the Scrovegni Chapel.
And
together, they are very nearly beautiful enough to drive out the prospect of
the three-week-old sushi in the fridge.
But not
quite.
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