This year marks a full decade since I left Mexico and came back to the United Kingdom. I still miss Mexico, warts and all. Indeed, it’s the warts that I perhaps remember most vividly. Sure, the food, weather and lifestyle were fabulous. Mexico City gave me better material for blogging than I get here in Bournemouth. I had three weeks off every Christmas, Easter and summer. And, thanks to being self employed, whenever else I wanted. Personal finances allowing.

But that’s standard chat that’s done and dusted within two minutes. It’s the random, freaky stuff that makes a good story…

This week, a most beloved institution put both my loyalty and my patience to the test. I have supported Liverpool FC since conception. Mother dear might have held a palm to her swollen belly to feel my random kicks as I came to life. But the truth is, I was listening to radio commentary from beyond the womb and cheering each and every goal knocked in by Keegan and Toshack. Sadly, Liverpool were one of the six English teams who signed up to the dastardly, qualification/relegation free, and now happily stillborn European Super League. Proponents tried to point to games…

For months, we’ve been stuck inside our homes or condemned to the same set of local walking routes. We’ve all been checking the daily infection and death rates, rejoicing in their decline. Because a decline means less people are dying, which is great. But also, if we’re going to be brutally honest, because a decline in Covid deaths means that we are getting closer to the day we can all go back to normal. Or something that closely resembles normal.

Are we nearly there yet? Yes, very nearly. Not far to go now. The second part of the grand reopening…