M gave me this when we met last December, for the first time in eight years — and possibly the last time. She'd got it for me while in Australia in 2001, and it's signed "To David…" A gift held or planned for so long carries extra significance. It was left to me to try and decode that significance, hoping it didn't come down simply to the name of the ensemble.
Another old girlfriend once posted me a book called "Where's my Baby Now?" for my birthday. That gave me a bit of a fright. When it turned out that the title was indeed apt, I asked her if she'd meant to send me a coded message, and she said that hadn't been in her thoughts at all, which was a little hard to credit. That was a long, long time ago.
I'm searching for a seasonal moral here about gifts. I ought to be able to think one up in the spirit of Kwai Chang Caine, but my mind is a little dull just now. So Google has found me these from The Prophet: "It is when you give of yourself that you truly give… There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism."
By comparison, it's harder to find anything on the net about Crying in Public Places. Here's the best I could do. They're a four-woman a capella group. I guess the closest comparison I could think of would be Australian (and not quite so politicised) version of Sweet Honey at the Rock.
This comes to you on Christmas Evening, just back from a day with Lucy's family, where the Boy has once more been charming his relatives. I had to go and sleep for two hours after the first course, not because I'd overindulged, but because I was struck yesterday by a bug that at first appeared to be the dreaded flu. It can't be because I wouldn't have been able to get up and walk around today if it were, but it knocked me out completely for 24 hours, and I had to depend on the kindness of my loved ones. Now back to bed, hoping this won't seem too much like a feverish and injudicious blurt in the morning.
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