Well, I must admit that this is something of a surprise. The truth is, though, that I’ve had some really nice mails from one or two people recently, coupled with an update request with regard to Bea. Not being one who’s particularly dogmatic about such things, I decided it would be fun to post again... maybe with more to follow, maybe not. Time – as always – will tell.
Anyway, life here in Olde London Towne has been good... the kids are fantastic, work is interesting (and there is work) and generally speaking the time has flown by. Much of this has had to do with Bea, and I guess that’s what this post is about. So for anyone who’s interested...
She came over here for the first time in January, unfortunately just for five days. I was cleaning the house for her impending arrival like a complete lunatic, and after much expectation I duly drove myself off to Luton Airport to meet her and bring her home. We had a blissful time, savouring every second (many of which were spent buried within those famous red sheets). But the few days we had together went far too quickly, and she was soon packing her thongs and other assorted accessories into her case with the promise that she’d be back for a longer stay in a couple of weeks.
Well, that couple of weeks ended a week or so ago, during which time we found ourselves having the talk. And the thing is, we had to admit that every second we’d spent together since the summer had been absolutely perfect. The kids adore her (and she them), sex – don’t ask, but the words “four”, “times”, “a” and “day” spring to mind – is amazing, and she even thinks the stories about our weather are wildly exaggerated. She even came to watch a Tottenham game with me, for god sake!
So, to cut a long story short... in not much more than a month from now I’ll be off to Luton Airport yet again, this time making sure that there’s room in the car for one or two extra cases. Because (wait for it...)
Bea’s moving over. Permanently. (And yes, Kimmy, "moving over" = moving in)
Yes, this beautiful and slightly mad Latina from Cuba, 17 years younger than me at the last count, is totally in love. And so am I, and all I can hear at the moment is her soft whisper in my ear... "Te amo, Papito". Who said that romance is dead?