Overlooked by publishers - Fiction (mostly)

The Outfit

by

Gabi Coatsworth


It had been at least thirty years since Jim Saunders had last worn the outfit. Well, it wasn’t exactly the same outfit, obviously, because he’d mislaid the original years ago. But this one was a faithful replica, and as he thought about how he would look in it, a slow smile spread across his features. He stared at himself in the mirror, and remembered.
The last time, two girls had been involved. They had been so trusting, innocent really. And he had experienced not one shred of remorse afterwards. In fact he had bragged about it to his brother, George. 
“They had no idea what I was going to do,” he told him. “If I do say so myself, I fooled them completely.”
 “Come on now,” said George, draining his second bottle of beer. “You’re not telling me that they didn’t even suspect?”
“Swear to God, not a clue,” Jim said. 
“Thing is you won’t be able to keep fooling them,” George continued, reaching for another handful of peanuts.
“Sure I will.” Hesitation was apparent in Jim’s voice.
And of course, George had been right. The next time Jim had tried to hoodwink the girls, the older one, Annette, sophisticated beyond her years, looked him straight in the eye as he lifted her onto his lap.
“You’re not really Santa, are you?” she asked, with an accusatory stare. “You’re my daddy.”

Thirty years later, Jim was ready to try again. Actually, it was his wife Jean who had encouraged him. He had been feeling grouchy, as he always did with the approach of Christmas. The tree they had ordered was too big for the stand they had used for years. The only string of Christmas lights that was working was the one he hated, the multicolored one that blinked on and off all the time. He hadn’t been able to find any icicles to hang on the tree. 
“I’ve had it with this tree. Christmas shouldn’t be so complicated. I don’t know why I bother,” Jim groused as he carried the box of ornaments into the living room from the attic. Jean gave him a shrewd glance.
“You know,” she remarked, “I think one of the reasons you don’t really enjoy Christmas is that you keep hoping it will be the same as it used to be when the girls were little.”
“Nonsense,” he snapped, and headed into the kitchen for something to drink. 
Returning into the living room, where Jean was now hanging ornaments on the tree, he handed her a glass of Cabernet and sank heavily into the leather recliner by the fire. He balanced his glass on the arm of the chair.
“It’s always some psychological thing with you, Jean,” he said. “I enjoy Christmas, of course I do. By the way, that silver ornament needs to go higher up. It looks wrong there.”
Jean persevered.
“Well, this Christmas should really be fun – We have the girls coming over. So Annette and Nick will be coming with the children. And Heather with her fiancé.”
Jim tried to enthuse.
“Sure, it’ll be great. I’m looking forward to it, honestly.”
Jean let the subject drop.

A few days later, walking down the High Street, Jean’s eye was caught by a brightly coloured window display in one of the local stores. Santa Suits – one size fits all, she read. Heading into the shop, she took a box from the stack near the door. The contents promised to include a jacket, trousers, belt, hat, beard and even some kind of fake boots that would fit over the wearer’s own shoes. She opened the box and took out the scarlet pants, lifting them up to see how much room there would be in the waist. After considering the pants for a few moments, Jean decided she would take a chance that they’d fit. After all, if Jim didn’t like the suit, she could always bring it back for a refund.

Early on Christmas morning, Jim crept off to the kitchen to make Jean a cup of cocoa, while she pretended she was still asleep. He had been bringing her a cup of cocoa in bed every Christmas Day for years. While he was banging about in the kitchen, she took out the suit and laid it on the bed. When he came back into the room, he stared at it, speechless. Putting down the cup of cocoa, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand over the jacket. Then he picked up the Santa hat and tried it on.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” he chuckled, giving Jean a distinctly un-Santa-like kiss.

Annette and her husband Nick arrived around three o’clock, towing Natalie, aged three, and the baby. 
“Grandpa,” Natalie shouted the minute she was inside the house, “Pick me up! Make me swing around!”
Jim laughed and bent down to help Natalie take off her coat. 
“Okay, here we go,” He swung Natalie around, then gave her a hug before returning her to the floor.
“Hey, Grandpa, what are we going to do now?” Jim shot Jean an enquiring look as Natalie hugged him around the knees. Jean indicated the tree surrounded by presents, with a sideways nod of her head.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Jim extricated himself. “Let’s look over here, shall we?”
Hand in hand, they walked over to the tree.

Shortly after, Heather and her fiancé arrived. Jean served hors d’oeuvres and drinks, while Jim and Natalie handed round gifts from under the tree. Soon Natalie was happily playing with a new doll.
Jim drew Jean aside.
“I think now’s the time,” he said. “I’m going to get changed in the downstairs bathroom, so don’t let anyone come in. By the way, do you have a cushion I could use for padding?”
“Are you sure you’ll need…” she paused. “Here you are, darling.” She grabbed the smallest cushion she could see. “Sure you can manage?”
“Piece of cake. See you at the front door in about five minutes.”
Jean returned to the living room, and passed round a tray of canapés. Every so often, she would look towards the front door, but no-one appeared. Smiling brightly at her daughters, she excused herself and hurried towards the bathroom.
A series of muffled curses greeted her as she neared the door. She knocked on it. Sudden silence, then Jim hissed:
“Jean, is that you?”
“Yes. What’s the hold-up?”
“Goddamn suit! I don’t know why they design them like this. They used to be much better. This is some foreign rubbish, I bet.” Jim sounded a bit breathless.
“Shh, they’ll hear you,” Jean was speaking in a stage whisper. “Do you want a hand?”
“Come in for God’s sake. Look at this. I can’t put these stupid boot things on.”
Jean opened the door, took one look at Jim and stifled a laugh. He was trying in vain to bend over.
“I think perhaps you’re meant to put them on before you put the cushion under your jacket,” she offered. “Why don’t you sit on the toilet lid and I’ll help you with them.”
The curly white beard which covered the lower two thirds of Jim’s face was thankfully stifling some of his further comments. Glaring at her balefully, he did as he was told, while Jean sorted out his footwear.
“There, I think that should do it,” she said, straightening up. “Sure you can cope now?”
Jim stood up and looked at himself in the mirror over the washbasin. He tugged at the beard, which had slipped around under one ear. Finally, more or less satisfied with his appearance, he gave Jean a ticklish kiss on the cheek.
“This used to be so much easier, didn’t it?” he grumbled, as he sneaked out of the back door.

In the living room, the grandchildren were getting fractious as the afternoon wore on. As she walked back in, Jean winked at Annette whose apprehensive look was quickly replaced by a smile of relief.
A bold knocking came at the door.
“I wonder who could be calling on us today?” said Jean. She looked at Heather. “You weren’t expecting anyone, were you?”
Heather shook her head, and pulled her camera out of her handbag.
“Hey, Natalie, did you invite someone over without telling us?”
“No, Grandma, really.” Natalie was looking a bit anxious.
“We’d better see who it is then. Come on.” Jean walked over to the front door, followed by Natalie and Annette, who was holding her hand.
As the door opened, a large red object with a top covered in white curls suddenly burst into life.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” it roared. “It’s me. Santa Claus,” Santa added helpfully.
Natalie stared at him, delighted and then appalled. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and ducked behind her mother’s skirt. Annette bent down, laughing.
“Don’t be scared, sweetie. It’s only Santa Claus. Do come in, Santa,” she added.
Santa Claus was over the threshold and dropping a sack on the floor before Natalie could quite believe it.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked.
“I’m Natalie.” She looked for confirmation to her mother.
“Delighted to meet you. I think I was at your house last night, wasn’t I?”
“Oh yes! You brought me a My Pony set and lots of other stuff.” Now Natalie was beginning to enjoy herself. “But why are you here?”
“Come and sit down with me and I‘ll tell you.” Santa sat in Grandpa’s favorite chair, and pulled Natalie onto his lap. “The reindeer and I were on our way home to the North Pole, and Rudolph stared to complain that he was hungry. So I was wondering whether you might by any chance have a carrot or two I could give him?”
Natalie looked hopefully at Jean.
“Do we Grandma?”
“I’m sure I can find some.” So much for the roasted carrots she had been planning to serve with the turkey.
Jean returned a few minutes later, to see Santa reaching into his sack.
“Since you are being so kind as to give me some carrots for Rudolph, maybe I can find a little something in here for you, young lady.”
He pulled out a package and handed it to Natalie. 
“And here’s something for your little brother, too.” Natalie wasn’t interested. She was busy tearing off the wrapping, to reveal a pink tutu with matching tights.
“A ballet dress,” she breathed, clutching it to her chest. “Thank you, Santa.”
“Well,” said Santa, sounding regretful, “This has been very nice, but I’m afraid I must get going. Mrs. Claus will be wondering where I am.”
He stood up.
“May I have a hug, young Natalie?” he asked, scooping her up.
Natalie obliged, wrinkling her nose a bit as she landed among the white curls of Santa’s beard.
Santa put her down, and turned to wave, before the door closed behind him.
“I wonder where Rudolph and the other reindeer are?” asked Natalie. 
“Oh, I expect they’re out there in the woods, looking for something else to eat,” said Jean.
“Can I see?”
“Of course. Stand up here on this chair. I’ll hold you.”
Natalie frowned in concentration as she peered through the glass. It was twilight now, and there were shadows among the trees.
“I think….I think I see them, Grandmama.” Natalie pointed into the sky.
“I do believe you’re right, darling,” said Jean, kissing the top of her granddaughter’s head.
“Grandpa, can you see them?” Jim, looking flushed with exertion, was striding back into the room.
“See what, sweetheart?”
“Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer.”
“Darn. You don’t mean to say I missed them? Just my luck. Come here and tell me all about it.”
“Well, Rudolph was feeling hungry…”
THE END

December 11, 2008

Dear Friends and Family,

It’s that Ho Ho time of year again, and, like everyone else in this great country of ours, we are hanging on by the seat of our pants and waiting to see what happens next.

Who could have guessed, when we planned our trips for the year, that they would take on a dreamlike quality to them as we look back? In March, Jay and I took Fred and Bertie to Costa Rica for 8 days. My daughter Helenka had recommended it, and knowing how interested she is in eco-tourism as well as comfort tourism, we set off with no misgivings. It wasn’t until we were halfway to our first hotel (some 3 ½ agonising hours from the airport by switchback road) that it occurred to me to wonder what the frequent yellow hearts, painted on the road, were. “Those? We were cheerfully informed when we reached our destination, “They commemorate people who’ve died in accidents on that spot. After a day or two we could see why the number was so high. Costa Ricans love their cell phones, and being a talented bunch have almost perfected the art of sending text messages as they ride their bicycles…Almost.

Costa Rica provided thermal waters and iguanas who wanted to share our breakfast, and wonderful people who chased them off for us. Then there was the zip-lining – a hair-raising activity in which they put you into what appears to be a flimsy harness (just like the parachute ones, they assured us, but without the parachute…and set free to fly along an even flimsier cable across ravines up to 600 feet deep. Apparently the view is fantastic as you cross. I have no idea, since I had my eyes shut the whole way and hard not to scream.  

Fred starts out...

It was a relief to be back in New Hampshire hosting Jay’s 50th Yale reunion. Not the whole thing of course, just a mini reunion of five other Yalies and their various spouses, who spent three days with us, eating, drinking and generally behaving as though they were still undergraduates. By the end of it, I fear they were wondering how on earth they had survived four years of this sort of thing when they were students. Sic transit gloria should be the Yale motto.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Yalies at play

Just when I thought it might be safe to relax a bit, we had 14 complete strangers to dinner in New Hampshire. We had agreed to this in a mad moment at a Christmas party last year (what was it in that mulled wine?). It was in aid of a local charity for land conservation, so let’s hope it raised enough money to cover our outlay.

A week later, Jay decided to take me and his daughter Amanda, partner Barb and their two children to a baseball game at Fenway Park – the legendary stadium of the Boston Red Sox team. Jay is a die-hard Yankee fan, and he had been warned not to wear any insignia of his team, in case he incited the local crowd to riot. He had scoured the internet for tickets for this game. Tickets for Fenway Park are always expensive, because the stadium is small and ancient, so he gulped, paid five times the price for the tickets, and off we went. Most of us went. As Jay was climbing the stairs to our seats (for $125 each they were right at the top of the stadium), he tripped and landed on his wrist, crushing it a number of interesting ways. He hadn’t damaged that one for about a year, so he was more or less due for a disaster. So he never saw the game and didn’t even see his seat, never mind sit in it.

I was devastated, of course, since it had been my life’s dream to see a baseball game sitting in the boiling sun and eating nasty hot dogs, but that’s life. I must say that four hours in the emergency room was almost as much fun, though. So I left for London the same night.

I’d been planning to do that anyway, to see my mother, now 88 and still going strong. She’s President of her local Liberal Democrat Policy committee, and keeps the rest of the committee on their toes. August brought less glamorous visits to prospective colleges for Bertie, our youngest. For those of you apt to lose track of time (me too), Bertie is now nearly 18, and will be going to college next Fall. His teachers seem to think he’ll be able to find a place at a good college, and maybe the competition won’t be so steep next year, because of the economic situation. Fred’s already at the University of Connecticut, and getting wonderful grades. In his spare time he designs amazing things on his computer, and is looking forward to snowmobiling this winter. Jay is thinking of going up to Canada by snowmobile from our house in NH. It’s true that we’re only three hours by road from Montreal, but I fear he’s being a bit optimistic. Being a super supportive wife, I have promised to give him a sandwich and a thermos of coffee if he’s really determined to go.

We saved the best for last, this year. In September we embarked on a three week odyssey to London, Turkey and Greece. We loved Istanbul, and also travelled to Cappadocia, an amazing region of natural rock formations that look like wizard’s hats but are the size of three and four story houses. In fact, some of them are inhabited, and we stayed in a fascinating cave hotel that had been carved out of the rock long ago for people to live in. For short people to live in. We were travelling with friends, and the men in the group were all over 6 feet tall, so by the end of our stay they were walking around looking dazed after a number of encounters with the low ceilings. I think it was the low ceilings.    

 

                                                          View from our cave bedroom

Sadly, I let Jay loose in some of the Turkish shops. A mistake, of course, since we came home to find the two carpets and artisanal (read: astronomically expensive) pottery waiting for us. Not to mention all the other souvenirs, which resulted in us having to buy an extra bag to carry all the booty. We arrived in Greece after a one week cruise on a four-masted ship, having visited Rhodes, Santorini and Mykonos on the way. Even the names of those islands sound wonderful, don’t they?

Santorini was where Jay left his mark. The port is located at the bottom of a very high cliff, and there are two ways of getting up and down: the funicular railway and donkeys. I don’t even need to tell you which one he chose. The donkey handlers chose the largest donkey and Jay sprang lithely up onto it. Then he seemed to have second thoughts, but it was too late, the donkeys were off. I followed behind so I had a great view of a donkey’s rear all the way down. I need say no more.

We saw Athens at its best, in the early October sun. Jay and I even visited Delphi, to see whether the oracle had anything to say. (She didn’t.)

We returned to election fever. You probably know who I voted for. Fred voted for the first time, since he and Bertie now have American passports in addition to their British ones. Fred had to stand in a queue for nearly two hours to vote, such was the enthusiasm at college. My son Adam voted for the first time, too. So I was feeling that at last the Democrats in the family would outnumber the Republican. You can imagine how stunned I was to find that Jay had actually voted for the right (non-republican) candidate. Who says that you can’t teach an old dog… On the other hand, I thought the rugs and souvenirs would be enough shopping for Jay this year, but he’s threatening to buy 40 acres of land further up the lake in New Hampshire. No, I have no idea why…something about a fun project?

We’re looking forward to a family Christmas in New Hampshire, and wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Healthy and Happy New Year.

P.S. I had a couple of short stories published this year. They’re on this blog if you’d like to read them. 

Published Fiction - Farewell Finally

CONNECTICUT MUSE WINTER ESSAY WINNER - Theme: Life in the Nutmeg State

Farewell, Finally
by Gabi Coatsworth of Fairfield, CT

Raffles, the gentleman thief, had been fairly unobtrusive until he started breaking into our home, unannounced, in the early hours of the morning. He would come stealing through the cat-flap and head straight for our dog Dougal’s bowl. Apparently approving of the contents he would finish them, then sashay over to the cat’s bowl and eat that food, too. The birdseed stored in the mudroom was just dessert.
We were no fools. We knew how to deal with raccoons like Raffles. We battened down the hatches, shut the cat flap, closed the garage doors, and prepared to repel all boarders. For awhile, Raffles was discouraged. But evidently he pined for Dougal’s premium dog food. So he started spying on us, waiting for his chance.
For our part, we did what all guards are apt to do when things are quiet – we became careless. It was the little slips that Raffles was waiting for. Perhaps a garage door not checked before sleep. Possibly a cat flap left open in a moment of recklessness. And so, one evening, we returned to our darkened house from a delightful dinner at a local hostelry to find Raffles, staring at us insolently from the breakfast nook at the far side of the kitchen. The kitchen had sliding doors that led out to the deck. My better half was determined to get the best of this opponent. Wielding a sturdy broom, he advanced upon Raffles, and adroitly opened the sliding door while attempting to sweep our visitor through it and onto the deck. But Raffles was not to be ordered about. Ignoring the open door, he made a dash for the relative safety of the pots of bougainvillea and lavender, which were overwintering inside. Finding no sanctuary there, Raffles made a super-raccoon effort, pulled himself together, and ran between our legs to make it out through the cat-flap unscathed.
We needed new tactics. Friends suggested we leave the garage lights on and play loud music to scare Raffles away. Personally, I think he actually liked the Classic Rock station. A few days later, Better Half cracked, when, only moments after leaving the house for work, he staggered in from the garage trailing the contents of yesterday’s garbage bag, and with an oath, swore that either Raffles went, or he did.
I telephoned a man in Litchfield County, who promised to bring over a Have-A-Heart trap, which would catch Raffles without hurting him. Litchfield Man arrived a couple of days later, and set up the trap in the garage, next to the garbage cans. He baited it with Gourmet Raccoon Food. 
“Irresistible to discerning raccoons,” he assured me. He covered the cage with black plastic, so as to disguise it from the marauder, and set it carefully down next to the garbage cans. 
“Call me when you catch it,” were his parting words.
I called him the next day. The garbage collector had taken the trap away with the garbage.
Litchfield Man returned two days later with another trap. His smile was a trifle strained I thought, but he set up the new trap, identical to the last one, except that, this time, I added a large label to the top: Do Not Remove!
Feeling that I had done all I could reasonably be expected to do, I left town for a few days to visit my mother. On my return, Younger Son looked at me accusingly as he told me that the trap had worked. I was intrigued. The cage looked different somehow, but I couldn’t see anything inside. 
“It was the cat that got trapped,” he explained. “I let it out this morning.”
I apologized to the cat. This was all too much trouble. Raffles seemed to intuit my craven thoughts. And next morning our garbage was strewn all over the garage again.
We were having a party at our house the next day. I couldn’t let Raffles spoil that. But I didn’t have nerve to summon LM again. So I reset the trap myself. It was easy, really, once I had found out how to get my arm back when it got trapped. I removed the dried-up remains of Gourmet Raccoon Food, and decided that perhaps Raffles might enjoy something less Gourmet Raccoon, and more Working Raccoon in taste, like peanut butter. I covered the trap with a black garbage bag, went back inside, and waited.
It worked.
I called Litchfield Man immediately, and with pride in my voice, recounted at some length how I had reset the trap and caught Raffles on my first try with peanut butter. What should I do now? A short pause ensued.
“Litchfield Man is away for the weekend, this is the answering service. I’ll have him call you.”
I must say that LM was very nice about it when he called back from somewhere in New England. He sympathized with the fact that I didn’t really want Raffles ricocheting around the garage in his humane trap all night. When I told him that Raffles had eaten the black plastic covering, LM suggested I take an old towel, cover the cage, and carry it into the garden. Putting on Better Half’s thickest working gloves (I felt he ought to contribute to this project somehow), I did as instructed. I left Raffles, resentful but resigned, to sleep peacefully until the next day. A couple of hours later I thought I’d check on him just to make sure he was OK.
He’d eaten the towel.
Litchfield Man came on Monday and drove Raffles away, and, though I was relieved to see him go, I felt a bit sad, too. Until I heard LM’s parting words.
“Call me when his friends come over,” he said cheerily.
I don’t think I will. Instead, I’m simply going to leave a pot of peanut butter outside the garage every night. That’ll take care of Raffles’ friends.

Christmas 2007 - at last

It’s that time again. Some thing has gone wrong with the system, because it is still November and I am starting to write the infamous Christmas newsletter. I believe that, when last I wrote, we were dealing with the flood in our lovely bedroom in New Hampshire. This bedroom always has water views – somehow we didn’t really want the water we were viewing to be coming through the ceiling in a torrent. Jay insists that this only happened because I wanted a tower on the side of the house which resulted in an odd roofline, water seepage etc). This may be true, but I remember telling him at the time that building a tower would be less expensive than a divorce.

Snow in Fairfield - December 2007

and in New Hampshire...

March and April passed relatively uneventfully. I kept up my contributions to the coffers of Broadway producers by going to about five plays, ranging from World War I dramas to musicals, and Jay started limping. Not much of a hobby if you ask me, but it takes all sorts. By early May his limp was so bad that he decided to let the local sawbones fiddle around with his knee, and from then on limped with crutches. Only for a couple of days, though, he wants me to say.

Fearing that I would have to spend the rest of the month fetching things that he’s left upstairs, or making him cups of coffee, I decided to go to Europe, so see the battlefields of France and Flanders. This was actually my mother’s idea. As a veteran of WW2, she is one of the members of her wartime corps who is still mobile and with it mentally. So, when they were planning to celebrate their 100^th anniversary, they asked her to come along to add a bit of class to the whole thing. I simply stowed away on board, as it were. We visited Ypres, scene of horrific World War I fighting, then spent three days in a crumbling but charming chateau in Normandy, following the trail of the 101^st Airborne and other D-Day heroes, something my mother swears she would never have done in real life. She always waited for the armed forces to follow her.

June arrived, as it does, and with it the first of the visitors to Mere Cottage, our stately manse in New Hampshire. While other people look for the return of the swallow, we keep a weather eye out for the greater (or sometimes lesser) crested summer visitor, and then we know that the summer hols are here. We had visitors from California, Arizona, Connecticut, Texas and London.



Greater Crested visitor with Jay





Fred and Bert, determined to escape from all these grown-ups, spent several months working at Jay’s Golf Club.

And it wasn’t anything sissy like caddying or polishing golf clubs. No, they were up shortly after five every day, to work from six until two, when they would return to the family fold, eat whatever wasn’t nailed down and crash wordlessly to the ground. This was the result of hours spent behind lawn mowers (walking, sometimes driving), fishing snapping turtle eggs (the turtles were snapping, not the eggs...) out of the sand traps (bunkers to my British readers), and weeding, fertilising and so on. I have never managed to get them to do this sort of work in our garden, but to his credit, Fred, on walking onto the front lawn in Fairfield, kicked idly at it with his toe, before saying, helpfully: “Nasty looking thatch you’ve got there. You’ll have to do something about it.” But before I could secure their services, they left for England, to visit their Dad, as they do every summer. Some people, and I mention no names, will go to any lengths to avoid taking care of the lawn.

By September, I’d had enough of trying to look after the lawn myself, and departed for South Africa with Jay in tow. As I was saying, some people will go to any lengths...As a matter of fact, Jay almost didn’t get to South Africa. As we walked up to the check-in desk for South African Airways in London, Jay asked me whether I’d got my South African visa. I know his wacky sense of humour, so I told him I’d had it arranged months before. The check in clerk took one look at Jay’s passport and asked him if he had another one. It seems the South African government requires one whole clean page in a passport before they’ll let you into the country. So we had to go back into London, stay overnight and get new pages stuck into Jay’s passport at the American Embassy next day. (No, sir, we cannot take a spare page out of your wife’s passport and stick it in yours....) We got to South Africa eventually, and met friends – old college roommates and new friends of friends.

Friends old...

Friends new...

Friends newest...

We had the most wonderful time, visiting Capetown, then a private game reserve in Botswana, another private reserve in Kruger National Park, then to Johannesburg and home. Our new definition of luxury is a room with three course dinners served on the deck as the giraffes wander by...

As a last fling, we decided to take an elephant safari (riding them, not shooting them...). These are rather controversial, because people believe that elephants shouldn’t be trained for such frivolous ends. But since our elephants had been rescued from possible death in Zimbabwe, where the country no longer has the resources to feed them, and they were already trained, we bravely clambered aboard with our elephant keepers. We got the elephants we deserved, of course. Mine stopped every five minutes to eat something, and Jay’s was large and wouldn’t do what it was told...

You may be wondering why there are so few photos of our trip in this letter. That’s because there are so few photos of our trip, period (full stop). In a moment of enthusiasm, Jay had bought a new video camera the day before he left for London en route for Berlin (still working!) and South Africa. As he went out of the door he suggested that I get Fred to tell me how the camera worked, so that I could teach Jay. Naturally I didn’t have time to do that, so the result is that we have quite a lot of film of Jay’s thumbs or knees, with a voiceover which is saying “Where the @#*! are the animals? I can’t see any animals.” We had a still camera with us, but Jay had left the charger for it back in New Hampshire, so once we had taken eight photos, we had used up all the power, and were in the middle of nowhere, with no hope of finding batteries. Ah, well, we are relying on the kindness of strangers friends, actually) who have promised us copies of their photos, so that we can prove that we were only inches away from lions, rhinos and the rest of the cast of The Lion King.

Back home for the Autumn, which had kindly waited for our return before producing one of the most gorgeous displays of colour we’ve had for several years. Locals predicted a hard winter as a result, and here we are, in mid-December, with snow falling all over the place. Being New Hampshire people for voting purposes, we went to see John McCain at our local town hall, and we’re hoping to catch some of the other candidates as they rush around looking for our vote. Jay is being rather coy about his choice, but then he has to choose from an all-male selection. I, as a registered independent (of course) am spoiled for choice, but my hairdresser tells me it should be a Clinton/Richardson ticket, and he’s got friends in Washington, so who knows?

We’re hoping for a lovely Christmas season. We’ll be in New Hampshire, surrounded by all that snow, and our children and grandchildren have promised to visit (sequentially, I hope). My mother is here from London, my sister is coming for the New Year, and we’re all well, especially Jay, who has been seeing a personal trainer in between sports injuries (some connection there...?).

Have a very Merry Christmas

and a Wonderful New Year!