Travel now not tomorrow

  It’s been a wet and windy summer in the UK. People here are famous for enjoying a good groan about the weather, but even most Brits are now weary of complaining. I’ve been back for three weeks and have seen only three days with no rainfall. But what to do about it? Suffer, say many. It gives us lush gardens, although those people don’t mention the slugs and weeds that flourish after such downpours. Escape, say others as they peruse last-minute travel websites. The Mediterranean countries, Spain, Italy and Greece, top the holiday search terms. But while some are tempted to escape to the sun, others fret. A neighbour shared her worries. “Is it worth going away? It’s August already. We’ll be getting ready for Christmas soon. Shouldn’t we just give this summer a miss?” Christmas! It’s still August. I know I will be criticised for saying this – but go and have fun, no more being hunched down under the wind and rain. Stand tall and straight, feel that sun’s warmth. There is an ec...

  Most of us don’t think of ourselves as foreigners, even when we’re overseas. We believe that we are one with the wider group. After all, foreigners are something else, they are the people who don’t belong. I remember the first time I realised I was be an outsider. My British Caledonian flight to Zambia had landed in Lusaka and, when I looked out onto the tarmac, none of the ground staff looked like me. It gave me a thrill but also a sense of vulnerability. These people were not my people and I wondered if I would be safe among them. That thought prompted another – this is how visitors to my own country must feel. They are outnumbered, and their dress, skin colour, hair, any number of things, mark them out and perhaps leave them open to hostility. I have to say that I met no hostility in Zambia. Instead, my social skills grew as I learned to reach out to the people I lived among. Perhaps I did it to fit in, to ensure that I was less of a foreigner. I didn’t anticipate feeling ...

  I went to a foreign land this week. You see, I needed a new bikini. The one I wear is ten years old and looks like me, a little faded. All I could find in London were the tiny, triangular cuts that belong on teenagers, or the balcony style structures that push your boobs under your chin. I am no buxom heavyweight, but I wanted something more fitting for a woman my age. So, I stood outside a shop famous among women with bosoms and I wondered if I could go in. Nothing in the window indicated that it sold anything for women like me, but I had heard that deep in its recesses there was swimsuit stock that might work. My little heart raced as I stood at the doorway. What if the salespeople told me I didn’t belong and laughed at me. My feet began to move away, there was no point in going in. I didn’t belong. But there was a wee side of me that was quite desperate for a new bikini, and I decided to brave any mockery. I stepped into the shop where hefty and fulsome bras and swimsuits hu...