389. Oldriška the Refugee Goes To London

A few years back, as soon as LittleDavyOne had left the house to go to Balclutha*, we let out her room to Oldriška the Refugee. One of the upsides was that LittleDavyTwo had some company other than Ned, who wasn’t much company at all, to be honest. The only down side was Oldriška the Refugee’s insatiable appetite for carrots. Not the expense, or anything else, just really, you know, odd to watch a person consume so much vegetable with such enthusiasm. Unsettling.

Anyways, fast forward a few years, and now we hear from Oldriška the Refugee that she’s washed up in London and is about to start a decent job with a decent firm, and life is settling into the pattern that it’s meant to when you’re young and smart and enthusiastic and full of joie de vivre. (Just wait till you get so decrepit that the food bastards get on your case, I’m thinking. Where’s the bloody joy then?)

My goodness, I feel that I can reach out and touch the sights and smells and tears and fears and smiles of my first time living overseas, and it’s just there right behind me and, holy mackerel, it was 35 years ago. It’s not a gentle stream of time anymore, on which we lazily float.

So enjoy London, Oldriška the Refugee, and make sure you get a nice flat with a spare bedroom somewhere just in behind St Paul’s, and I’ll pop over soon with 23kg of real proper Ohakune carrots. I wonder what might be going on in London in, oh, September or October?


 

  • To be honest, we got the timing not quite right. So LittleDavyOne was turfed out of her room a few days before her official departure to allow the paying tenant to take possession. It’s one of those things that we’ll all laugh about one day.

 

About Ned Davy

By hokey, the big fella’s tipped into his 50s. A rangy loose forward in his prime, good with the ball in hand, but rarely up with the play any more.
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