My friend Derek owns a house on the beach in Peranporth, Cornwall. You can walk directly from the door, past Cathedral Rock, into the surf. This weekend there were a houseful of guests, they came from all over, a congregation to enjoy some company, a few drinks, a little surfing and some general dolittle. And I fell in love.
I think we all did. With Georgia.
Georgia is a smile, a turned up nose and gentle freckles, a shock of blond hair and a guileless, simple charisma that melts the heart. “Pass me the…” she’d say “Can I have a…”, and we’d feel pleased to be asked. “Pick me up” she said, and I put her down, eventually, three days later. Georgia is four years old.
It’s strange what keys exist, what doors open to unexpected draughts, what negligible force it takes to persuade.
I managed to broker a deal this week, the best deal I’ve ever done, and I’m renowned for waking in the morning surrounded by the slops of the previous night with a signature in my hand.
This one is for me though. I handed in my resignation, a year’s notice - more than enough time for them to find someone to take my place, and plenty of time for me to galvanise myself, or rather us, to travel. To go look, and find out.
(ps Any suggestions on where might be a good place to spend New Year in the States?)