The Ghosts of Marches Past

car, rearview mirror, sunriseBy the time you read this I’ll be in Rome airport, most likely, having spent a night on the train. I’d tell you the story of the women with whom I shared my carriage, but I don’t know it yet. It’s all to be discovered. I feel like I’m in that Pulp song. Not that I can name it right now, or even think of the lyrics, because Zucchero is playing on the radio and my flatmate is singing along as she mops the kitchen floor, but you know the one.

Right now I’m sitting at my desk in Catania. Or am I? If we’re talking about right now as the point that you read this piece, I could be anywhere: Rome; London; Somerset; somewhere in the sky overhead. Wherever I am as you read, as I write I’m thinking about where I was this time three years ago and smiling at how much has changed – and, conversely, stayed the same. I’m not a full-time teacher any more, but I still played Fruit Salad when I did some substitute work recently, just as I did three years ago. And I still spend my whole time telling stories, whether it’s to students like last year, or on this blog, or over at my cookery blog. Most of all, though, I’m content just going with the flow and seeing what happens. Those are the best days.

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About Kate Bailward

Kate Bailward is a cat-loving, trifle-hating, maniac driver. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Google+
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2 Responses to The Ghosts of Marches Past

  1. Krista says:

    It is a strange and lovely thing how our words can be in one time while we are in another, living a whole new set of experiences and feelings. :-) Happy travels!!

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