‘The world is divided into two: statues and pigeons,’ my friend Holly, says to me.
She’s one of those genuinely good people, kind, funny and self-deprecating.
‘You’re sounding very philosophical. You only went to Crete for five days and you’ve come back like Homer,’ I reply.
‘I must be a Homer pigeon then. I couldn’t wait to land — there’s nowhere like England.’
‘That’s true.’ The irony in my voice says it all. I’d love a holiday. I’d love to get away. Five nights in Greece would suit me well.
‘I’m not saying the food wasn’t good but it was an all-inclusive hotel and food was served in a large display cabinet. Most things were luke warm and congealed to the extent where it had to be prized apart — and the cocktails were pre-made.’
‘You might have got it from the ice.’
‘I much prefer self-catering and eating out in local restaurants.’
‘You can do that next time.’ My reply is glib.
‘It was supposed to be a fly and flop holiday — we were so tired. But it was more like fly and plop. I spent more time in the bathroom than anywhere else — it didn’t even have a window.’
‘How perfectly dreadful.’
‘I think I’ll stay at home next year.’
‘Fly away Peter, fly away Paul,’ I hum.
She tilts her head to stare inquisitively at me. ‘Who?’
‘Homer pigeons, flying back to Heraklion. They’re homesick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you stop flying then you’ll always be a statue.’
Good night, dear reader. Keep flapping those wings.
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